


Death or Glory

by IncognitoButterfly, YuriPirozhki (AceOfSpace)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Anxiety, Heavy Angst, Hunger Games AU, M/M, POV Multiple, Pining, You May Cry, emetophobia warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-06 12:21:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 55,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10334561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncognitoButterfly/pseuds/IncognitoButterfly, https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceOfSpace/pseuds/YuriPirozhki
Summary: Phichit sighed. “Nothing’s gonna happen to Mari, okay? There are countless other people here; people who get rations for ten others a year!” His voice lowered to a whisper, so as not to catch the attention of Yuuri’s family members. “Between you and me, even if she does get chosen, you’ll be okay. You’re young and fit. You can work in the mines. You can grow and sell herbs. You can-”“And what ifIget chosen?”Suddenly, he felt arms around his shoulders, and he relaxed. He felt warm. He felt safe.“Yuuri,” Phichit told him calmly. “It’s not going to happen.”“Okay.”----aka 'The Hunger Games AU that happened by accident'. May the odds be ever in your favour.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I do have to give some credit to Ao3 user sara_crispino (america_chavez), for without a series of Hunger Games simulators that they started, this AU wouldn't have come to light. Thank you! 
> 
> Also, in this fic, there are different age restrictions and no gender restrictions with it comes to the tributes - YuriPirozkhi

On the year’s most anticipated night, the citizens of the Capitol were silent. While a privileged few had the luxury of seating, thousands of people settled with standing shoulder to shoulder in front of the stage, pressed tightly together like stems in a bouquet. The stark quietness of the atmosphere was a great contrast to the bright colours of the audience members’ hair, the dramatics of their makeup, and the outlandish prints on their outfits. As much as each attendee looked whimsical and eccentric, together they resembled a band of followers, for in this moment, each man, woman and child were unified in awe. There was no denying their collective fixation on the two well-dressed men on stage. They were underneath a spotlight, sat on two matching white couches with a tiny coffee table placed between them. Towards the back of the stage were twenty-three other candidates, shrouded in darkness, but each to be interviewed in their own time. The one being watched was the first, and it was the two men at the front and centre who commanded total attention.

One was a familiar face of sorts; the same gentleman who’d hosted the event for years. Caesar Flickerman was only somewhat recognisable due to yet another cosmetic overhaul; the periwinkle hue of his hair and eyes had been deemed ‘so last year’ and had since been replaced with a vibrant teal bouffant and matching lenses. He donned a classic three-piece suit in the colour of midnight sky, and his eager smile shone with the intense brightness of stars. His body was faced towards his company, his eyes intently on his expression as he leant towards him with interest. It was an interview, after all.

The man he was questioning appeared much younger than Caesar. He was certainly taller. He had a similar suit to the host, though his plum coloured jacket markedly differed from the pale grey of his vest. His long legs, in black suit pants, stretched outwards so his feet were under the table. Short silver hair fell into his pale eyes from time to time, but he didn’t seem to pay much mind to that. In fact, he had a rather carefree attitude and a certain charisma about him that suggested years in the public eye, surrounded by cameras and spectators. However, this was not so. Aside from relative popularity in his home district, the twenty-eight-year-old beauty had never been unveiled to the eyes of the Capitol, or at least certainly not on this scale. He likely never would be again.

“Viktor,” purred the host as if his name was like a song, “Viktor, Viktor… What can I say? So far, it's been an honour! I can only hope the others will be as pleasurable to speak to as you are.” 

“Oh no; you’re too kind,” he responded before flashing a cheeky smile in his direction. Viktor Nikiforov was a natural in front of the camera, a talent he hoped would earn him hoards of sponsors in the upcoming days.

“No, I’m serious!” egged on Caesar, “Say I find a way to rig it, make you the winner of the games. We could do a talk show together, you and I! It’d be great! What do you say?”

Viktor managed to give a laugh, then winked at him. “We’ll talk about it out back, alright?”

The host joined him in hearty laughter, and the audience cheered excitedly as if on cue. It was clear that they already had taken a liking to Viktor. He was well on track to getting donations and gifts when it mattered more. His already large fan base was growing by the second.

“I wish I had that power, young man, but unfortunately, it’s not the case,” the teal-haired host admitted with a sigh, “But seriously, if you do end up winning-”

“You mean _when_ I do,” Viktor corrected.

“Of course, _when_ you do, give me a call.”

“Gladly.”

There was applause once more. Caesar’s body language suggested that this particular interview was coming to a close, as each of the twenty-four had only a few minutes allotted. Still, it appeared that the eccentric host had a question or two burning at the tip of his tongue. Leaning forward in interest, he had his elbows rested on his knees and his brow furrowed as he waited for the right words to come to him, although given his experience in front of the camera, it wasn’t long at all.

“So we’ve heard all about your experience at the tower, your training score which _certainly_ isn’t one to laugh at, but I think there’s something more we’d all like to know,” hinted the host. “Is there anyone you’ll be thinking of when you fight for your district? Perhaps someone special back home?”

Viktor was eerily blank-faced for a moment, but his expression became cool and calm once again. “I’m single if that’s what you were wondering, you sly dog.”

The spectators erupted in laughter. A notable portion of the crowd was cheering, as well, and for them, Viktor blew a kiss.

“Really?” queried Caesar in disbelief “I must say, I’m surprised!”

The younger man’s cheeks turned the slightest shade of pink and he looked downwards. “Alright,” he admitted, “There is _someone_.” He found himself laughing over the hysteria of the audience, and the look of Flickerman with his jaw visibly dropped. “I just haven’t known them for very long, and I don’t feel ready to talk about it yet.” He shrugged, the crowd gave an audible ‘aww’, almost in perfect unison. They were rather hungry for gossip, as it were.

“Sorry, everyone! He’s a private man!” Caesar announced with a smile, “I do hope though, Viktor, that you’ll be able to keep that person in your heart, and that you can fight for them, then come home a winner and tell them how you feel. You deserve to live a nice, happy life with them.”

“Thank you,” Viktor was touched, as shown by the way he brought the slender fingers of his right hand to his chest, “But I don’t think it’d work out that way.”

“And why is that?” he asked, perplexed, “Who wouldn’t want you?”

Viktor pursed his lips and glanced towards the stage floor. The plastered-on smile he’d prepared for the cameras faded for a split second. He knew his chances of _that_ ever happening were non-existent, but he knew better than to bring down the mood of the interview. After all, these were the Hunger Games, and the people of the Capitol were oblivious to the great sadness and feelings of impending doom that came with being a tribute. Viktor was never going to have the kind of life that Caesar described. There was a one-in-twenty-four chance that he wouldn’t die, but the spectators didn’t care for that. All that mattered to them was entertainment, and Viktor would give it to them, in exchange for their sponsorship.

“I think I just-” he looked up again at the host, offering a shy smile, “The games will change everything, but we’ll see each other again … in the next life.”


	2. The Lucky Katsukis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading, commenting and subscribing! It means a lot to me that people are showing interest. Enjoy! - YuriPirozkhi
> 
> EDIT:( April 7, 2017) Minor edit to Mari and Yuuri's entry numbers, to fit in with Hunger Games canon.

There was not one person who enjoyed the Reaping.

Held once a year in the district centre, it was an event that marked the beginning of Panem’s most sadistic tradition. Two young people between the ages of sixteen and thirty were plucked randomly from the masses, adding to a total of twenty-four tributes nationwide. From there, they were ceremoniously sent to die, the methods never always known, but gruesome nonetheless. They were expected to fight for their lives using any means necessary, keeping themselves alive through braving extreme conditions, or most commonly, killing their competitors to save themselves. Only one person per year was spared with their life, but they may as well have been killed, their psyche never quite the same as when they entered the torturous Hunger Games. It was a dark way of reminding each of the twelve districts of just how little power they had, that the prestigious Capitol and its iron fist would always prevail. For those in the luxury of the Capitol, the games were the annual talk of the city, a televised event much like a sport where citizens bet on their favourites to win, then moved on with their lives after they had perished. 

For the Katsuki family, each year in which they escaped the Reaping unscathed was a miracle.

It was marked with a celebratory banquet, which wasn’t much, but it was enough to leave the entire family full for one night. It was something that took weeks of preparing, of saving food rations and working extra shifts in the mines and market stalls. For one night a year, the Katsuki family got to eat hot, fresh bread, tender meat that wasn’t marbled with sinew, and fruit that had been newly ripened. The feast was likely something which Capitol folk would sneer at, but in District Twelve, it was a meal fit for a king, the perfect way to celebrate another year of togetherness, and the safety of those whom they held dear.

There was something particularly special about this year’s Reaping and celebrations. It would be Mari Katsuki’s last. At thirty, escaping the Reaping meant an unbearable weight lifted from her shoulders. It meant the promise of a long and peaceful life fulfilled after being teased with the idea for fifteen years. It meant that her perpetually worried parents could breathe a sigh of relief, for after spending half of her life in fear, their little girl would be safe.

Even though Yuuri Katsuki still had seven years of Reapings to endure, he couldn’t ignore how important today was for his sister. In fact, it was so prominent in in the forefront of his mind that he couldn’t possibly stay home, as much as his mother likely needed him to help her clean the house. He didn’t imaging that she’d find it surprising, for in the years gone by, Mari’s younger brother had made a habit of disappearing in the hours before the Reaping. His family had been lucky in the past, with nobody in his family ever being chosen to partake in the vile and tortuous games. Still, he often found himself with a sick feeling in his stomach, and the constant worry in his head making him wonder when that luck was due to run out; when his name would be duelly called out amongst the district’s gathered youth, and he’d be escorted away like a lamb to slaughter.

“Yuuri!” called a slightly annoyed, but otherwise cheerful voice from beside him.

“Mm?” he blinked to snap himself back to reality, and was well aware that he’d been dreaming.

“Please tell me you saw that…”

He narrowed his eyes in confusion. “Saw what?”

Phichit sighed. “ _Yuuri!_ The bird fell out of the sky!”

“Oh,” he commented, a pathetic attempt to feign interest, “Yeah, cool.”

Phichit Chulanont was Yuuri’s best friend, and they tended to spend every waking moment together, despite their age difference of four years. Their homes were neighbouring, and they frequently shared food rations with each other when times were dire. In the years gone by, they had made a tradition of venturing out into the meadow on the edge of the village, separated from their neighbourhood only by a barbed wire fence. It was peaceful there, albeit the home of some occasionally boisterous wild animals and birds, but it gave Yuuri a chance to forget his troubles for awhile, dream about what his future could hold, and spend some uninterrupted time with his favourite person.

In the early morning hours of Reaping Day, it had become a habit of sorts for the two to gather there. Usually they would use the time to bring each other happiness, to tell jokes and forget the fact that one or both of them could be dead in a few days. However, this year it was harder for Yuuri to let his thoughts drift to pleasant territory. He could only think of his sister, his family’s luck, and how it could easily run out in the final year of her being eligible. After all, at thirty years old, Mari had her name in the Reaping Lottery more times than most people in District Twelve. The only ones with ballot numbers surpassing hers were those who added more names to the lottery in exchange for grain rations. Thankfully, their family managed to get by without needing extra food, so she didn’t have her name in more times than necessary, but still, fifteen times. It was too much. Almost doubling Yuuri's nine, it made him feel anxious. Perhaps it was why Yuuri’s parents were putting so much effort into preparing a meal today, he thought. If she was freed from the terrifying grasp of the Reaping, it would be the hardest obstacle overcome. However, if she was unfortunate enough to be chosen, the food could be sent to her as a sponsorship present, and it would be enough to feed her for days.

“Everything’s gonna be fine,” Phichit assured him with a tap on the shoulder. 

Yuuri didn’t know if he meant it or not, but his optimism was appreciated all the same. He wished he could be as dismissive as his best friend and simply focus on his advanced hunting skills, but his head wasn’t in the right space. Even if he attempted to do what Phichit had just done, and take down a bird in flight with a single blowgun dart, he imagined it would turn out disastrously. He was as far from focused as possible.

“Thanks,” he murmured softly.

Phichit continued to grin all the while. “C’mon, what are the chances of it being different to every other year? You’re the ‘Lucky Katsukis’; have been for, like, sixty years. Relax.” He began to stand and look forward into the distance. “We could get that dove I just shot and fix a nice meal with that. I’m sure it’ll cheer up your mom.”

Yuuri nodded. It seemed like a good idea.

It wasn’t long until they were at the Katsuki family home, freshly captured dove in tow. Yuuri couldn’t help but watch in awe as Phichit so effortlessly dismembered and prepared the bird, like he’d been doing it for all of his life. Then again, he supposed that it was true. With three younger siblings and parents too ill to handle much labour, Phichit had been his family’s main breadwinner for years, and he did any odd job on offer. Even still, he struggled to make ends meet, and it meant applying for five extra grain rations per year. Five extra slips of ballot paper with his name on it, in exchange for food. Because of this, Phichit’s chances of being chosen had already surpassed his own. He loathed to think of what that would mean for the family if the worst happened. His younger siblings were adept at hunting, but not so much as their big brother. Without him to catch game and gather food, the Chulanont family could end up starving.

Yuuri didn’t think himself anywhere near as skilled of a hunter as Phichit, for it was his sister who did most of the hard work. Part of him secretly thought that his parents preferred his best friend over him, or at least his usefulness, for he could see the way his mother’s face lit up after Phichit had readied the bird for cooking. After the Reaping, he decided, Yuuri was going to ask for more hunting tips, and to take the reins more when they went looking for birds and deer. That was, of course, if they all survived the day.

“Hey, Phichit?” Yuuri asked after having changed his clothes. For the Reaping, it was commonplace for the district’s youth to wear their best attire, for the ceremonies were televised throughout Panem, including the wealthy Capitol. Those who were selected as tributes would have such footage of them plastered all over the nation’s screens, and those poorly dressed were often the ridicule of games commentators.

“Yeah?”

“I want to go hunting with you more often, y’know, instead of sitting around.”

“Really?” asked Phichit, surprised. “I thought you found it boring, or you just came to keep me company.”

“You’re good company,” Yuuri insisted. “It’s just-” he paused while his eyes met the floor, “if something happens to Mari, I need to be able to do what she can.”

Phichit sighed. “Nothing’s gonna happen to Mari, okay? There are countless other people here; people who get rations for ten others a year!” His voice lowered to a whisper, so as not to catch the attention of Yuuri’s family members. “Between you and me, even if she does get chosen, you’ll be okay. You’re young and fit. You can work in the mines. You can grow and sell herbs. You can-”

“And what if _I_ get chosen?”

Yuuri felt his pulse start to race as the thought entered his mind. He was always aware that the likelihood of him being selected increased with each passing year, and that the chance of surviving the games was so unbelievably low. He took a moment to figure out his strengths, and what he would do if the unthinkable happened. Did he have what it took to kill someone? Did he have what it took to face death bravely? Would he even last more than thirty seconds in the arena?

Suddenly, he felt arms around his shoulders, and he relaxed. He felt warm. He felt safe.

“Yuuri,” Phichit told him calmly. “It’s not going to happen.”

“Okay.”

Within an hour, a great crowd had formed in front of the district’s Justice Building. Peacekeepers from the Capitol lined the borders of the square to keep people from leaving and minimise any conflict. Naturally, it also reinforced the rich city’s domination over the twelve districts, as such displays were replicated throughout all of Panem. The peacekeepers formed a physical barrier between those eligible for the Reaping and their parents, spouses, and loved ones. Once Yuuri, Phichit and Mari had their fingers lanced and their attendance marked, they were stuck in the crowd until the ceremony was over. They blended into the masses in dull formalwear, with only Yuuri’s horridly clashing tie and navy suit jacket making him stand out just a fraction.

The beginning of the Reaping was marked by the appearance of two special guests. The first was Celestino Cialdini, a long-haired man in his mid-forties who only rarely left the barren Victors’ Village on the district’s outskirts. He had won the Hunger Games some twenty years prior, the only living person from District Twelve to do so. He approached the makeshift stage in front of the building with noticeable disdain, likely from the fact that in all of the last twenty Reapings he’d seen, none of the tributes from Twelve had come back alive.

The second was Minako Okukawa, a Capitol representative, who appeared as out of place as a flounder in the sky. She looked remarkable for her age, which was supposedly in her early fifties, although she’d stopped counting around the time of Celestino’s games. She donned a hideously bright magenta pencil skirt, and an equally distracting blazer that pointed out at the shoulders and emphasised her tiny waist. Her hair was smothered by a cotton-candy tinged wig, or at least Yuuri didn’t think it was her real hair. It even appeared to look like spun sugar, given the way it sat so high atop her head. She was by far the brightest sight in the entire district, and it was near impossible for the townspeople’s attention to be on anyone else but her. Aside from her outlandish appearance and over-the-top makeup, all eyes were on her for another reason. For a few minutes once a year, Minako Okukawa had an unbelievable amount of power. She rarely set foot in the district at any other time, but her job was to escort District Twelve’s tributes to the Capitol for the Hunger Games. Before doing that, she drew two names from a lottery, choosing two innocent townspeople and effectively sentencing them to death by pronouncing them as tributes. However, based on the light-hearted way she dealt with everything, it was assumed that Minako didn’t understand the weight of the situation.

She approached the microphone at centre stage, teetering in an enormously high pair of shoes. She cleared her throat to gain attention, but it wasn’t necessary. The entire crowd was silenced just by her entrance.

“Happy Hunger Games!” she exclaimed with glee.

There was no response.

Yuuri had watched the spectacle for years on end, and Minako’s spiel about the history of Panem, and the supposed honour that came with representing one’s district at the Games never changed. Perhaps if it was repeated to them enough times, those in the Capitol thought the belief would become universal, but it was a farfetched idea at best. His mind slipped in and out of reality, instead dwelling in every anxious thought that plagued him. He could see Mari standing not too far from him, tightly gripping her friends’ hands. Phichit was to his left, wearing the same grey suit he’d worn at every Reaping, and had since outgrown. He was sure he wouldn’t cope if either of them were taken from him. 

“Let’s begin, shall we?” Minako’s voice rippled through the crowd. Aside from her voice, the atmosphere was so quiet that one could surely hear one of her hair pins fall to the ground. 

The escort gestured to a comically large glass bowl beside her, propped on a table and filled with folded slips of paper. It was deep enough for Minako to submerge her whole arm, and she managed to do so with grace. Perfectly manicured fingers fidgeted through the papers until they reemerged, their grip tight on one single piece. The first tribute.

Yuuri searched frantically for his sister in the crowd, hoping to see her face, and hoping that they’d find comfort in each other. He knew that sixty-four ballot slips was too many, but the bowl was filled with other names as well. He so desperately wanted for her to be free from this sadistic game, and for them both to go home to his parents’ Reaping Day dinner. His eyes were so focused on her that he barely noticed Minako return to the microphone, a proud smile gracing her heavily made-up features.

“Yuuri Katsuki!”


	3. Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning to those with emetophobia

The first name was called and for a split second, there was silence. Still, the townspeople's expressions as they looked at him said more than words ever could. Yuuri Katsuki hadn’t quite processed it yet. For him, time had stopped. He was suddenly more conscious of his body than he had ever been, the way his chest expanded and his lungs deflated as he breathed, and how such movements were becoming more forced and erratic. His throat was rather dry. Sweat had well and truly formed on his palms, and he tried to rub them discreetly against his trouser legs. Tears were welling up in his eyes, causing his vision to blur. He felt an uneasy hand on his back, heard a sniffle and a trembling murmur from next to him, the words indecipherable.

“Yuuri Katsuki?” called Minako Okukawa, who then smiled as the young man’s image was projected on large screens near the stage. “There you are, darling! Come up here, Yuuri. It’s alright.” She extended a hand and gestured towards the stage. 

He willed himself to move, but it wasn’t possible. His feet remained firmly on the ground, his entire body stiffened and unyielding. Phichit was trying to rouse a response from him, but it didn’t help. All Yuuri could focus on was the anguished cries of his parents, separated from him by a guard of armoured peacekeepers, who would surely resort to physical violence if the Reaping was compromised in any way. Footsteps from the distance grew louder and the crowd dispersed around him, leaving him clearly visible for the approaching peacekeepers. Incredibly tall and heavily armed, they were rather threatening despite what they intended to promote. Yuuri felt the tight grip of a hand on his forearm and his legs gave way.

“NO!” he cried in desperation as he was dragged towards the stage by the arms. He attempted to push and kick the peacekeepers away, but he couldn’t shake off four of them. He was surrounded. “No! Please, no! I don’t want to die!” His already harsh voice broke mid-sentence, and he began to cough as he started choking on his tears. The peacekeepers paid no mind to his reaction, as if it was commonplace. It was like they’d become immune to watching young people begging for their lives. Between the shiny white armour of the peacekeepers and through his tears, he saw a horde of strangers, standing perfectly still and watching with deadpan expressions. He wanted more than anything to find his sister’s face in the crowd, hoping that there was some way, any way that she could save him. Yuuri had heard that people could volunteer to participate in the Games, though it seldom to never happened in District Twelve. As soon as that thought came to mind, he began to feel physically sick. He couldn’t believe that he wished for Mari to take his place. That wasn’t what he wanted at all. What he wanted was to go back home and eat dove with his parents and best friend. 

He was handed to Minako upon reaching the edge of the stage, and she escorted him up three steps to join her. Yuuri had never hoped to see the Reaping ceremony from this point of view. It was terrifying. Staying still was a difficult feat, but he could see a camera pointed towards him, so he knew that he had to look presentable. Surely the other tributes would be looking at him like an easy target, assuming they could watch the ceremonies as well. The thought of it made him tear up again. After all, his chances of making it out of the games alive were abysmal. He had no idea of what hopes he had, and what strategy he could use. Even now that his time was critical and limited, he could only think of the fierce racing of his pulse, and the burning acidic feeling that climbed up his throat. Another hand came to touch the small of his back, but this time it was Minako. Her touch was nowhere near as hard as the peacekeepers’ shoving. She was even smiling at him, possibly sincerely.

“It’s alright to be nervous, Yuuri,” she assured him. “You’ll get used to the crowds in time- _Ugh!_ My _shoes!_ ”

He felt bad for being sick on Minako’s undoubtedly expensive shoes, but better that the physical manifestation of stress had left his body. His dark eyes were wide like saucers at the realisation that, of course, everyone else had to see what just happened. Upon looking up from Minako’s soiled footwear, Yuuri was finally able to see his sister in the crowd, heaving as she cried into her friend’s shoulder. His heart ached for her most of all, even more so than for himself.

The peacekeepers were swift in attending to the mess, making sure that Minako was in a fine mental state, and that the ceremony could continue as planned. She was quite professional once the the stage was made clean, and she was given another pair of shoes to wear. Apparently, a reaction like this from a tribute wasn’t too uncommon, and the Capitol representative had come prepared.

After clearing her throat and taking a sip of water, Minako reached into the bowl of names once again. Grinning eagerly towards the crowd, she all but dismissed Yuuri’s response to being selected, instead carrying on the facade that being a tribute was honourable and an opportunity to be cherished.

“Now, for the second tribute of District Twelve,” she cooed, paper slip in hand. “Whoever shall it be? Joining Yuuri will be-

“I volunteer!”

Yuuri knew that voice. He did _not_ want to be hearing that voice.

“I volunteer as tribute!”

_Phichit, no._

He watched helplessly as his best friend was taken from the crowd, and a guard of peacekeepers formed around him. In contrast to the way Yuuri was brought to the stage, there was almost an eerie calmness in the way that Phichit advanced towards him. It was like he’d had time to consider his actions while watching Yuuri kicking and screaming, like he was already at peace with his fate. Yuuri didn’t feel like he had any more tears left to cry, yet they still flowed to his cheeks. He imagined that his entire face would be red and puffy by now.

“My, my!” Minako announced with glee, “A volunteer! Certainly uncommon for District Twelve! What’s your name, handsome?”

Phichit cleared his throat and brought his mouth to the microphone. “Phichit Chulanont.”

He spoke with great confidence and clarity, not a hint of fear in his voice. Yuuri was amazed.

“Well, Phichit Chulanont, I must commend you on your bravery, and the pride you have in your district! I’m sure they all have pride in you, too.” Minako had a large grin on her face as she stood between the two tributes. “No other volunteers? Alright, gentlemen. Shake hands.” 

Yuuri extended a hand, which Phichit took firmly into his own before pulling him closer into a tight embrace. He sought the opportunity to brush away his tears on his shoulder. 

“What have you done?” whispered Yuuri, “Why?”

“Like I’d make you do this alone,” he responded just as quietly. “You’re my best friend, and we stick together, no matter what.”

“Phichit....”

“We’ll be okay.”

“There you have it,” Minako presented them once more to the crowd as soon as they broke apart, “Our tributes from District Twelve! Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favour!”

It had only taken a few minutes, but it was over. The Katsukis were no longer lucky. The Chulanonts were likely to starve. Both families had to endure the gross misfortune of watching their sons brave the elements, and avoid death until it proved too much. 

Yuuri searched one last time for Mari’s face in the sea of people before him, and seemingly caught her eye for a fleeting moment. Despite everything, he was genuinely happy for her, but loathed that he robbed of her a day that was supposed to be joyful. Even if his selection as a tribute was inevitable, he wished it could have happened a year from now, when his dear sister could have been behind the peacekeepers’ guard, in safety. Thanks to Phichit, he now knew what it felt like to have someone he cared about be chosen for the games. He hated how she had to feel the same way.

The new tributes were escorted through the large double doors of the Justice Building, which were promptly closed behind them. Yuuri had never been inside such a place before. Given his family’s state of relative poverty, he was unbelievably shocked by the lavish appearance of the building’s interior. Rich hues of burgundy covered the walls, and the floor was a deep mahogany. The expensive decor was such that Yuuri didn’t think existed in District Twelve. He felt out of place, even in his best clothes.

He and Phichit were sent to separate rooms, and he knew what that meant. 

Before he had much time to think, the door to the room Yuuri was in had burst open, allowing for his devastated parents and sister to come inside. There was only a limited time that they’d have together before he was sent to the Capitol, to the Hunger Games and to his death. Upon seeing each of their crestfallen faces, he couldn’t help but feel guilty, even though he knew that he couldn’t have helped the outcome. He supposed that they were still in denial, the first stage of grief, for it felt like an eternity since anyone said a word. It was either that, or his mother, father and sister had all rapidly advanced to stage four, each stuck in a silent depression, knowing that Yuuri’s days were numbered to single digits. He supposed that once he died, he’d be free of any woes, but that wasn’t the case for his loved ones. They would have to watch the footage of his demise over and over again, then forced to go on with their lives without him. The Games were just as painful to them as they were to the tributes.

His father came forward first, but didn’t say much. It was unusual for them to hug, but it felt right at this point in time. It was almost certain that they would never meet again, and they needed to part ways without having any regrets. Yuuri’s eyes twinkled with tears as his father showered him with praise, recounting stories that he thought were forgotten, and ultimately assuring him that he was proud to have him as a son. It was bittersweet. Although not much was said, they had bonded more than they had in some time. It was a shame that it would be the last time.

His mother, was the next to advance. It looked as if she had tried to refrain from crying, but Yuuri could feel her body trembling as soon as she clung to him. His skin grew wet as her tears leaked through his shirt. His chest physically ached with every sob that crept from her lips.

“Mom…”

He had never wished to be a little boy again as much as he did in that moment. He yearned for a time when his mother’s arms could shield him from everything, when he could bury himself in her warmth until his problems disappeared. Instead, he felt like a failure for not being able to return the favour, to bring her comfort when she needed it most.

“The food for today,” she murmured, her voice wobbly, “We’ll send it to you, to keep you strong.”

“I’m not strong,” Yuuri snapped without thinking. He buried his head into his mother’s shoulder, mumbling feebly against her neck. “Keep it. You need it more than I do. I probably won’t last long enough to get it, anyway.” He was too tired to cry.. Still, his eyes were stinging, threatening him with tears if he ever regained the energy for them.

That remark caused for the woman’s grip around Yuuri to grow tighter than he thought possible. Part of him wished that she would simply crush his lungs and put him out of his misery there and then. At least it wouldn’t be televised, he thought. 

“Don’t say that!” Hiroko exclaimed, “You need it! Otherwise you’ll … you _can’t…_ ”

“Mom, Yuuri’s right,” Mari’s voice sounded from nearby. “He’ll feel better knowing you’re not starving.”

“If you really don’t want to eat it,” he offered, “give it to Phichit. He’ll last longer.”

He wondered what was going on in the next room, where his best friend was seeing his family for the last time. Would it be worse for them knowing that he chose this? He imagined his own grieving mother and father, and the looks of confusion on his younger siblings’ faces as they tried to comprehend why Phichit would rather die than remain in safety. Was he so confident that he would win? He supposed that he could hunt, and his talent surpassed anything that Yuuri could do by far. Maybe he had some other abilities that he’d kept secret, including from those he held close.

As he delved into his thoughts, he felt Mari pry his crying mother off of him, forcing away her arms despite how many times she tried to cling to him again. He caught sight of his big sister’s face, and how she already looked drained despite having not worked today. Her free hand was tightened into a fist while her left arm cradled their mother. Mari was doing an impressive job in not crying, but it looked like she was giving her all to refrain from breaking down.

“I’m sorry I ruined your day.”

“Yuuri,” Mari sighed and shook her head, “You never ruin anything. You’re the best brother I could ask for.” Her embrace was shorter, but still tight. She squeezed him close and kissed the top of his head. “Take care of yourself, and good luck.”

“Time!” called a unknown voice from beyond the door before it opened. 

Panic levels inside the room reached a new high as peacekeepers invaded the space, forcibly escorting the Katsukis outside, leaving Yuuri alone once again. He screamed out in anguish as his devastated mother reached out to him, only to be pushed by the armoured soldiers. She called out how much she loved him over and over again while Mari’s voice was only barely audible in comparison. 

“Don’t worry about us,” she told him. 

Seconds later, they were gone.

Minako went on to direct Yuuri and Phichit to the train as if nothing had happened; as if neither of them were subjected to massive trauma and it was just an ordinary day. Yuuri didn’t particularly feel like talking, and it seemed that his best friend didn’t, either. As a result, the car trip to the station dragged out in silence, only occasionally broken by Minako’s attempt at small talk. Even Celestino didn’t feel like humouring her. Now that he’d come to think of it, Yuuri hadn’t heard so much as a word from his soon-to-be mentor all day. It was quite unlike him, according to Minako, but she seemed to convey that Reaping days were always difficult for him, even though she didn’t mention it specifically.

Stepping out of the car, Yuuri couldn’t help but think if his reddened cheeks had faded, and if the puffiness around his eyes had gone. There were cameras everywhere, and spectators swarming around him like moths to a light. They did the same to Phichit, though he could hear shouts of praise directed to him. He was the brave volunteer, and the reporters were desperate to learn his story. He was now supposedly one of the most patriotic citizens ever to walk the face of District Twelve. He was a golden boy, a sentimental favourite before the games had even started.

Meanwhile, there was Yuuri.

He tightly held his eyes shut as paparazzi invasively asked how he was feeling, what things he’d said to his family in their final meeting, and how he planned to win the games. Their voices overlapped each other to the point where it gave him a headache. He wanted so badly to push them away, to block their taunts and questions from his mind, but it proved impossible. Even when he was in visible distress, they wouldn’t yield. He supposed it wasn’t surprising. After all, he was a tribute now; nothing more than a toy of the Capitol and a number on whom to bet. His feelings never mattered, so they persisted, even when his blatant discomfort was plastered all over the television screens set up at the station. 

He entered the train as quickly as he could, eager to get away from the smothering crowd. Once he, Phichit, Minako and Celestino were aboard, the doors closed behind them immediately, and the train set off to a roaring start. It was startling at first, for Yuuri was only used to the slower coal trains to and from the mines in Twelve. This was a state-of-the-art Capitol vehicle, one that would transport them to the big city in less than twenty-four hours.

To call the train’s interior grand would be an understatement. Yuuri had felt out of place in the Justice Building, but now he felt it even more so. The inside of the train looked more luxurious than he could have ever pictured, with the carriages separated into both shared and private chambers, and each room dripping in fine decor from floor to ceiling. Dining chairs and tables were carved from solid mahogany, and the curtains that separated them from the outside world were a thick emerald velvet. As he meandered into what would be his bedroom for the night, he couldn’t help but think that this was the kind of room for a prince. He had a large, comfortable bed all to himself, a shower with hot water, and drawers filled with soft and fashionable clothing. It was too good to be true. Then again, he already knew that, and the inevitable torture he’d be faced with in time.

He lay onto the large, soft bed in the centre of his room, spreading his arms and legs out like a starfish, and stared towards the ceiling. At least it was peaceful here, he thought, and he could be spared from hearing anything Hunger Games-related for a while. However, it didn’t stop such content from flowing into his mind and occupying every single one of his thoughts. He closed his eyes, wondering as to what his family were doing now, and if they were really going to keep their food like he’d asked. He hoped so. In a way, it was a dying request, and Yuuri figured that it ought to have been respected.

“Yuuri!” called Phichit as he peeped inside of the room, “Check out dinner! You won’t believe it!”

Phichit darted away with so much enthusiasm that it left Yuuri shocked. 

He entered the train’s dining hall and his eyes widened.

He thought that he’d seen a banquet before. He was mistaken.


	4. Reality Check

There was never much in the way of food in District Twelve.

The least financially stable of the districts by far, its citizens often had to register to receive grain rations, and worked dangerous and exhausting jobs to put food on the table. Most commonly one would find game, the meat marbled with fat and sinew, often hunted in the meadows or bred on villager’s farms. There was also bread from the local bakeries, although expensive. Such freshly made goods were usually reserved for those in politics, like the Mayor of Twelve and his family. Commoners like the Katsukis were often left with the day’s remainder, stale and tough, but substantial nonetheless. Fruit and vegetables were observed like precious jewels, usually only reserved for special occasions. It was absurd as to how much grain needed to be traded for an orange, but when the family had fruit to share, it was marvellous indeed.

He wished that they could have seen the decadent feast before him.

A bowl of thick, aromatic soup was placed at each table setting, with a dollop of sour cream and a sprinkling of herbs as garnish. On a side plate was bread, freshly made, steam still billowing atop the crust and flowing into his nostrils. There was a salad so beautifully colourful that it looked like it belonged in a museum, with tomatoes a vibrant red, and onion slivers in a subdued shade of purple. The greens looked so crispy to the point where Yuuri was already yearning to bite into them.

The smell of the dining hall had Yuuri salivating, and his stomach growled with anticipation. He never thought that he could fit a meal so large into his body, but he figured that he may as well try. As the Reaping ceremony had come a close earlier that day, he thought that perhaps his appetite had disappeared, but he was quick to find that it wasn’t the case. Despite having only just laid eyes on the table spread, he thought hard about what to eat first, how much to eat, and whether he’d have enough room to try everything. 

“Is this all for us?” asked Yuuri, flashing a confused expression to Minako and Celestino from across the table. “This is _one meal?_ ”

“Why are they always like this?” the pink haired lady murmured in response, stunned, “Does nobody eat in this district?”

Celestino narrowed his eyes, as if to suggest that she knew better.

“Yuuri, sweetie,” she cooed, reaching out a hand to touch his own, “This is the first course!”

“There’s gonna be more!” announced Phichit with delight, “It’s enough to feed half of District Twelve, don’tcha think?”

Suddenly, Yuuri wasn’t so hungry anymore. He was told that there would be four courses, with palette cleansers in between and enough to drink until liquid spilled from his ears. It was a sickening amount to take just for himself. It was unjust. All he could think of was his family, his honourable, hard-working family, exhausting themselves for days on end to scrounge for meals while he had an inexcusable amount of food pushed in front of his face. He sat back in his chair and looked at the bowl in disdain, all while seeing Phichit stuff his face from the corner of his eye.

“What’s wrong?” asked his fellow tribute between mouthfuls, “You’re not eating.”

“I- I- …,” Yuuri turned away from Phichit, his eyes instead focused on the edge of the table, “I’m not hungry.”

“Do you need me to feed you?” he teased, and Yuuri could see his hand reach across the table, scooping up a mouthful of soup. “Now open up, so the train can get through the tunnel!”

He rolled his eyes and took the spoon for himself, swallowing the soup and savouring the taste, as guilty as it made him feel. How Phichit could be so relaxed at a time like this, he didn’t know. Then again, he’d ventured into their current circumstance by choice. It would have been impossible for him to think about being down on his luck, because for all they knew, he could have been safe had he kept his mouth shut. He must have known what he was doing when he volunteered, thought Yuuri, or they both would have been nervous wrecks with diminished appetites. Instead, he felt alone.

There was some hesitation involved, but the soup bowl soon became empty, with every last morsel mopped up with crusty bread. Minako kept reminding him that there was more to come, and the thought of it made him feel both excited and disgusted. Still, it was worse thinking that the food would go to waste if it wasn’t eaten, so Yuuri shovelled pieces of prime steak into his mouth like there was no tomorrow. Well, there was a tomorrow, he thought to himself, but there wouldn’t be much more after that.

The selection of food was divine, and mostly small talk was exchanged as the two young men indulged in seasonal vegetables, rich and smooth cheeses, a fruit platter and a selection of cream cakes. Once the plates had been cleared, Yuuri wasn’t sure if he could keep his food down, and accidentally cause an encore of what happened at the Reaping. Heaven forbid it happened on Minako’s shoes again. Phichit looked rather proud of himself, hands softly atop his protruding belly like he’d conquered the biggest feast in the world. It was certainly the biggest feast either of them had ever had.

“Well, Phichit, if you liked that, you’ll feel right at home at the Training Centre,” mused Minako with a smile.

Yuuri shuddered at the mention of it. _The Training Centre._ It was the building where all the tributes would show off their combat skills, intimidate each other and form alliances before being formally assessed. Perhaps it would have been exciting if he had any decent battle skills, he thought, but he was certain that he’d only be made a laughing stock before being sent to his death. When it came to survival skills, he thought himself better, at least. He had spent his entire life growing up in poverty, making small amounts of food go a long way, and being creative in ways to find shelter. He could make a fire. He could extract water from a tree. However, he doubted that such knowledge would be useful when it compared to brute strength or the ability to wield a sword with confidence. There was no benefit in knowing how to survive when his skills would never be needed, when he’d be dealt a fatal blow to the head in the games’ first five minutes.

“We’ll talk training in the morning,” Celestino assured them, before rising from his seat. “However, there’s something you need to see first: your competition.”

He lead the tributes to another carriage, leaving the table to be cleared by Capitol staff. Yuuri didn’t quite know what to expect. Logic told him that the twenty-two other tributes weren’t hiding aboard the train, ready to ambush him, but fear attempted to convince him otherwise. Naturally, he was relieved to find the carriage empty. Elegantly decorated, the carriage was furnished with two chesterfield sofas and a low-setting coffee table. Celestino retrieved a remote control from a cupboard by the carriage doors and signalled for a projector and screen to appear. The anthem of Panem began to sound and upon the screen shone the seal of District One. It changed to show a crowd of eager townspeople, the atmosphere radically different to that of Twelve. It almost looked as if they were excited. He could see the elaborate stage, the Capitol official poised at the centre with paper in hand, and townspeople in anticipation.

Then Yuuri saw him.

He was tall. He was handsome. The sound of his name echoing across the square did nothing to faze him. Strands of silver hair rested atop his head like a crown. He exuded confidence and charisma in the way that he stood. The crowd erupted with applause as he came forward, even splitting voluntarily so that he could be escorted towards the stage. The man was smiling and waving at the townspeople as he passed, and he moved with such grace and poise that it left Yuuri astounded. 

Yuuri didn’t notice the way that his jaw dropped as he watched the screen, or that he even stopped blinking for a while. He was only focused on the captivating smile of the District One tribute, his eyes glistening in the stage lights, and his wink to the camera so mesmerising that Yuuri thought it was meant just for him. It was clear that he’d captured the hearts of those in his district, but he had even charmed Yuuri from the other side of Panem, and through a screen, to boot. He was, without doubt, the most beautiful man he’d ever seen.

“That’s Viktor Nikiforov,” Celestino told them, pulling Yuuri out of his daydream and forcing him to blink. “He’s already got a lot of Capitol support and he’s very dangerous. He’s been known to fence competitively since he was a teenager, and he’s twenty-eight now, so … he’s _good_. Long-range weapons would probably work on him best.”

Phichit was nodding like he was in a class taking notes. Neither of them had notepaper but Yuuri suspected that he’d find a way to scribble everything into a book later. He hoped that Phichit would remember what they needed to know about Viktor, for Yuuri had spent too long lost in his pale blue eyes. The only thing he could retain was that long-range weapons were Viktor’s potential weakness; things like guns and throwing stars and poison darts. Perhaps Phichit could do away with Viktor so that Yuuri could be spared the embarrassment of going near him. He imagined that he’d fall to a blubbering mess upon meeting his gaze, anyway.

“His district partner, Georgi Popovic, is almost equally as skilled,” Celestino spoke as a well-dressed young man with dark hair joined Viktor on the District One stage. “If I were you, I’d try and let the kids from Two and Four take care of them so you don’t have to.”

Yuuri nodded in understanding. He was referring to the career districts, those in which the Hunger Games had the most living winners. In Districts One, Two and Four, it was commonplace to teach children and teenagers the art of combat as a preparation technique for the Games, though explicit pre-games training was in breach of the gamemakers’ ruling. Hence, such training was often under the guise of martial arts academies or self-defence workshops.

“Sorry,” Celestino added with a shrug, “I’ve got over twenty years on you two. You’re all kids to me.”

Soon after, the seal of District Two was being projected, and the Reaping ceremony from there was played for Yuuri and Phichit to observe. That was when Yuuri realised that what he’d suspected earlier was true. Every tribute would have the opportunity to see each other on screen before meeting in person at the Training Centre. The thought of that made his cheeks redden and warm. They were all going to see him make a fool of himself, screaming and fighting while Viktor and Georgi approached like fearless warriors. Viktor was going to see him be sick on Minako’s shoes. He shuddered in his chair just thinking about it. Then again, why did it matter what _he_ thought? Yuuri figured that he wouldn’t last long in the Games. For all he knew, the District One swordmaster could be the one to do it.

“Mila Babicheva,” announced Celestino. The cameras were focused on a tall, slender young woman with deep red hair to her chin. She ascended to the stage like a goddess, practically floating from her place in the crowd. She didn’t look particularly pleased, nor did she seem disappointed. The look on her face suggested a quiet smugness, like she stood a decent chance at winning the games and she knew it. 

“It goes without saying that the tributes from Two mean business,” he continued. “Mila doesn’t look too scary up close, but she can kill from a hundred yards away. She’s been training to be a Peacekeeper at Nikolai Plisetsky’s self-defence academy for years, and she’s a _very_ impressive sniper.”

Yuuri gulped nervously, and he could feel his pulse begin to race. A hundred yards?! After hearing about Viktor and Georgi’s prowess with swords, he had all but confirmed that his games strategy would be to run as far from the others as possible, and simply wait for them to kill each other. He hated knowing that there would be someone like Mila in the arena as well. It frightened him to know that no matter where he stood once the Games began, she could be watching him like a hawk, and aiming straight for the target on his back.

“Speaking of Plisetsky, that’s his grandson,” Celestino pointed out as the cameras changed to focus on a slightly built young boy, with straight blonde hair framing his face. “Yuri’s only sixteen, but he’s not to be underestimated. If he’s anything like his grandpa, he’s incredibly agile, flexible, and feels at home with a knife in his hand. The fact he’s been trained since childhood makes him another strong favourite.”

As he was being told about their competition, Yuuri could only wonder as to why this information couldn’t wait. The heart dinner in his stomach only threatened to greet him again with each harrowing fact he learned about the other tributes. He thought about how likely he’d be able to sleep come nightfall, knowing that his mind would be abuzz for hours to come. Perhaps he would be too frightened to close his eyes by then, thought Yuuri, for the tales of his fellow tributes were enough to give him nightmares. He hated to think about Mila Babicheva hiding in the shadows, about Yuri Plisetsky appearing in the blink of an eye with a knife. The overconfident Jean-Jacques Leroy sprinting at him with no restraint. Sara and Michele Crispino and their seemingly unbreakable alliance. Eerily quiet dark horses like Seung-Gil Lee of Six and Otabek Altin of Eight. They were in a completely different league compared to himself, and Yuuri was sure of it.

It was confirmed when he saw himself on screen.

He wondered if Phichit could tell that he was uncomfortable. Based on the way he could see his concerned expression in his periphery, it seemed likely. He cringed at the sound of his voice breaking, his words losing coherence and turning to muddled, desperate sobs. The camera panned to shots of his heartbroken parents and sister, and Yuuri couldn’t bear to face the screen anymore. His hands flew upwards to cover his eyes, and he felt Phichit’s arm around his shoulder. It helped a little, but he could still hear his own cries, and the disgusted shriek of Minako as her shoes became collateral damage. Why did everyone in Panem have to see and hear this? He was already going to be a laughing stock before the games started, and that was just in the eyes of the spectators. The tributes, he thought, would probably be thankful that he was so weak. Much like how he was mesmerised by seeing Viktor Nikiforov for the first time, he imagined that they’d also be rendered speechless upon catching a first glance of him. Of course, their shock wouldn’t be for the same reasons. They wouldn’t have found Yuuri captivating or beautiful. Instead, he would have likely been seen as an object for their pity, a sure thing to get himself killed in the first five minutes of the games, a threat to no one.

He missed his mother.

“Yuuri,” cooed Phichit, his voice smooth like melted caramel, “We don’t have to see this again. Come on; let’s go to sleep. I bet your bed’s really comfy!”

Yuuri begrudgingly lifted himself from the couch and let his best friend lead him out of the carriage. His vision was blurred from the beginnings of tears, but he supposed it didn’t matter. His eyes were only on his own feet, after all. Phichit would take him somewhere better, and he could trust him.

He thought he heard Phichit murmur something in disdain to Celestino, but his mind was too focused on trying to get to his bed. 

“What? And have him wet his pants at the Training Centre? I don’t think so!” 

Celestino clearly wasn’t impressed.

They retired to bed soon after, and for the first time all day, Yuuri had an extended period of time alone. He took a moment to appreciate the grandeur of the carriage he had to himself for the night, the four-poster bed in the middle of his sleeping quarters, its plush pillows and warming quilt. He lay atop the covers, and it felt like resting on a cloud. Nothing could match the comfort and luxury he felt at that moment. It was the kind of bed he’d dreamt about back at District Twelve. From where he was positioned, he could see a large window, and would see beautiful stretches of scenery had they not been clouded by darkness. It would have been a much more interesting sight in the morning. Still, he didn’t want to think about tomorrow. The new day marked in a new stage in preparing for the games. It meant arriving at the Training Centre, and being paraded in front of countless cameras again, likely mocked for his behaviour at the Reaping. No, he was trying to sleep. He couldn’t afford to think about that, as much as it continued to plague is mind.

His stomach was still so full from dinner, and he couldn’t help but think of what Phichit had said, and of his family. He so desperately hoped that they respected his wishes, and kept their own food for themselves. The last thing he wanted was for them to starve for no good reason. He wanted to speak to his parents, to his sister, and let them know that he was alright, that he’d stopped crying. Phichit was with him, and he was making things bearable in a time when he thought it impossible. Perhaps he was so calm and level-headed because he’d chosen this fate for himself, but Yuuri couldn’t fathom as to why he’d do such a thing. Did he do it so that they could die together, and that neither of them would be alone? Or was he going to sacrifice himself so that Yuuri could live? He didn’t know which option he preferred. He disliked them both.

A noise caused him to sit up on the bed.

“Yuuri?”

“Mm,” he gave a slight nod and fell backwards, assuring Phichit that it was fine to come inside.

“I couldn’t sleep without checking on you,” he admitted as he walked towards the bed and took a seat, “Watching the other Reapings was brutal.”

Yuuri gave no response.

Phichit’s voice dropped to little more than a whisper. “You’d rather not talk about it? Okay.”

For a while, they remained in silence. Yuuri was sprawled across the bed, his limbs extended while his eyes were towards the ceiling. Phichit, being as polite and thoughtful was ever, had perched himself on one of the edges, but in time, he grew more comfortable and took up more space. Eventually, he brought his legs up onto the mattress, and Yuuri gave him room. They rested atop the covers with Yuuri facing the wall, while Phichit was curled towards the middle of the bed. Without words, they had managed to communicate that they were better off together than alone and frightened. Focusing on each other would distract them from the dark thoughts that lingered in their minds, or so Yuuri thought.

“Phichit?” he murmured lazily.

“Yeah?”

“We're going to die soon.”

“Don’t say that.”

“But it’s true,” Yuuri retorted, not bothering to change position, or look directly at the young man beside him. “Even if you want me to be optimistic, at least one of us is _definitely_ dying soon.” 

It was a thought that lingered in his mind no matter how hard he tried to forget it. No matter the outcome of the games, even if the unthinkable happened and he won, these would still be the last remaining days with his best friend by his side. In the end, they could face the agony of having to fight each other to the death, one-on-one. He hated thinking about it. Had he ventured into the situation alone, he could have found solace in knowing that Phichit was okay, and that he could count on him to look after Mari and his parents. The twenty-year-old was skilled enough in hunting game, and fit enough for mining work to provide food and resources for both of their families if times were dire. Still, somehow, despite what he thought to be common sense, Phichit was there en route to the Capitol with him. 

“Hey, I never got around to asking,” said Yuuri after rolling over, now looking Phichit in the eye, “Why did you volunteer? You didn’t have to,” he insisted, “I would have understood.”

“I, uh-” he paused, looking away. “I guess it felt like the right thing to do.”

He felt like there was something Phichit was hiding, but he wasn’t in the mood to pry. The right thing to do would have been to stay with his family, to support them financially and keep food on the table for them. It was more logical for him to remain behind, to live a long a peaceful life and care for Yuuri’s family, respecting his memory. To him, nothing seemed right about Phichit volunteering as tribute when he had a potentially good future set out for him. He supposed they had different perspectives, and in the end, he wasn’t going to complain too much. He was sure that things would have been much worse if he was going in with a stranger, if he didn’t have the support of one of the people who cared for him and knew him best.

“So,” Phichit continued, “Viktor from District One, eh?”

Yuuri felt his cheeks warm. He really _did_ know him well. He brought his knees towards his chest and tried to hide his face. Was it that obvious?

“I saw the way you looked at him in that video,” he teased, “We’ve known each other long enough. I think I know a crush when I see it.”

All Yuuri could muster in response was a groan. Of course Phichit was right. Viktor was elegant and sophisticated and charismatic and he was going to brutally murder him in about four days. Thinking about him put his stomach in knots. He wondered if they’d ever get a chance to speak before the games began. Would he be as mesmerising in person as he was on that stage? Would he be as kind as he was to the Capitol Escort in his district, and to the audience who cheered for him? Yuuri didn’t even know why he was thinking about such trivial things. None of them mattered. 

“Why do I even care?” he asked, before slamming his face into the pillow. He hoped that Phichit had the answers. It was usually the case. “Why am I letting something like this affect me? Of course this had to happen at the _worst possible time!_ ”

“I reckon you should go for it.”

Yuuri listed his face from the pillow and looked his fellow tribute in the eye. “What?”

“Go for it!” he repeated with a shrug, “Flirt a little. You know what? Just go up to him, put his face in your hands and just plant one on him at the Training Centre. What’s the worst that could happen?”

He supposed that Phichit had a point. Their current situation couldn’t really get much worse. He even let out a chuckle, but that was only because of the mental image that had been planted in his mind. Not having a clue about his games strategy, nor any prowess with combat weaponry, he supposed that he would be made a fool of at the centre anyway. It really wouldn’t have hindered him much to throw himself at Viktor Nikiforov. If anything, it might make the silver-haired beauty want to stay away from him at all costs, potentially buying him more time alive.

“I’m gonna go to sleep, okay?” 

“Phichit?” asked Yuuri, watching his friend sit up, “I know this might sound weird, but … can you stay?”

“Sure, but if I hear you sleep-moaning anything about Viktor, I’m going back to my room.”

Knowing that their time together was limited, Yuuri thought it was important to savour the moments he had with his best friend. Even though they intended to enter the games as a team, and as allies, ultimately they would be competing against each other for the chance to stay alive. The dynamic between them would only change as the games grew nearer, despite having been friends for almost twenty years. 

He lifted the bed’s heavy quilt and crawled underneath, his body instantly caressed with warmth. As he closed his eyes, he heard Phichit shuffling to his side, the steady rhythm of the moving train, and a click as the bedside lamp was turned off. If he could only ignore that they’d be arriving at the Capitol come morning, things would be close to perfect. In reality, it was far from the case. As his eyelids grew heavier, Yuuri could only hope that he could wake to find that it was all a nightmare. He wished to open his eyes and find himself back at home, his stomach full from Mari’s celebration dinner. However, he knew it wouldn’t be the case. Although with a beautiful man to dream about and his best friend by his side, he supposed that things could be worse.


	5. Strong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the wait! This chapter is quite a bit longer than the others, so hopefully it makes up for things a bit. Enjoy!
> 
> Special shout out to @vnikiforov for being the inspiration behind Yuuri's stylist xo

As morning came, he was greeted with another elaborate meal. 

Yuuri rose from bed and followed the delectably sweet aroma to the dining carriage, where he once again found the table set for himself and Phichit. The smell was something he could barely describe, like that of every flower and fruit he’d come to discover, but mingled also with the mouth-watering scent of freshly baked bread. At his place was a large ceramic plate and bowl, complete with cutlery as well as a glass for juice and a mug for coffee or tea. It was an astounding sight to behold, and Yuuri couldn’t believe that he was being gifted with so much food just for breakfast. There were pancakes paired with more toppings than he could count, fresh fruit in every colour of the rainbow, fried eggs and bacon and three types of cereal. He stared wide-eyed at the table setting, his stomach growling although he was unsure if it was in anticipation or protest. He supposed he could aim to take a little bit of everything. After all, it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if he had some extra calories to sustain him during the games, thought Yuuri.

He sighed. All of this, the luxury, the food, the attention would have been a dream come true if it wasn’t for the circumstances.

“Yuuri, could you pass the syrup?” asked Phichit, ever the morning person, with a cheerful smile.

He replied with a groan in contrast, and passed a small ceramic pitcher across the table. It took a little more than the sun’s rays to get him motivated for the day, especially a day like this. Today was the day they’d arrive at the Capitol, settle into the training centre and come face to face with their competitors, or perhaps more accurately, their killers. Yuuri had already had a hard time just seeing them on a screen, and he dreaded what would happen in the coming days, when he saw the menacing faces of Jean-Jacques Leroy and Georgi Popovic, among others, knowing that they wished for him to die. After leaving the train, Yuuri would be smothered with cameras, his remaining days suddenly the interest of everyone in the Capitol. Would the citizens cheer for him to cry? Would they feel sorry for him and send him gifts? Then, of course, there was his family and everybody else back at home. How would they cope watching him struggle and break down, knowing that there was no way for them to help? He thought it best not to think of it for too long, especially while his mentor Celestino was so closeby. 

Celestino Cialdini was beside Phichit, their expressions markedly different. The older man had dined and formed acquaintances with twenty pairs of tributes in as many years, only for them all to die in a handful of days. It made sense that he wasn’t talking much. All he seemed to talk about were combat strategies and the frightening things that would happen in the near future. It was clear that they weren’t friends, but he was there to teach them nonetheless. Taking his lessons to heart could be the difference between life and death, he warned.

“Phichit can shoot birds down from the sky,” he informed the older man in between mouthfuls of pancake. “He makes blow darts at home and uses them to catch food.” 

He couldn’t see the way Minako, sitting beside him, was reacting to his remarks, but he could imagine how she looked. Someone catching their own food? Looking out for themselves? Surely Minako, with her Capitol background, would have found such an idea to be foolish and barbaric, thought Yuuri. He, however, thought that Phichit’s skills were extraordinary.

“He hunts dove and wild turkey, and he’s even shot down a few deer,” he wasn’t going to stop talking up his best friend. With all of his heart, he believed in him, and he wanted for Phichit to know it. Especially when their days alive, let alone together, were numbered, he wanted to leave the world with no regrets, and no words left unsaid. “He can make fires really quickly and he even makes spears out of fallen branches and-”

“Yuuri,” Celestino interrupted before taking a sip of piping hot coffee, “I want to know what _you_ can do.”

Despite how much he’d been talking before, his mentor’s request had left him silent. He swallowed a mouthful of food and lowered his cutlery, using all of his willpower to picture himself in combat. Simply the thought of it made him sick. He hated knowing that he’d be forced into an arena to struggle for his life, and that he had to commit murder to set himself free. He didn’t think himself capable, and he had trouble imagining himself even attempting it, but it was necessary for a situation like this. Even if he expected to be impaled in the games’ first few minutes, he needed a strategy. He needed a strategy he could put into action, but first, into words.

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

Yuuri knew that he was capable of surviving on his own. In fact, he could do quite a bit of what Phichit could do. He was able to set traps and capture birds, although he often couldn’t stand the idea of cutting their necks. He was physically fit and could spend hours in the confined spaces of the District Twelve mines. He could stare at a lush green field and point out the edible plants, those that could be used medicinally, and those that needed avoiding at all costs. Yuuri knew that he had good qualities, but in his mind, it all seemed to be overshadowed by the fact that he hated the idea of killing. He felt guilty at the thought of slaughtering dinner. The idea of murdering someone in the same situation as him - an innocent person who just wanted to go home - was too much.

“Once, Yuuri and I wandered too far outside the village limit, and we ended up stuck in the wilderness for two days!” Phichit started, undoubtedly saving Yuuri from enduring a rather awkward silence. “He set up shelter for us to keep us out of the rain, and used my hunting knife to get water out of a tree. Yuuri navigated us home. Come to think of it, if I got stuck out there by myself, I don’t know if I would have made it.”

He was taken aback, but not surprised, to hear Phichit rushing to his defence like that. His friend had always had the kindest heart, and an unwavering loyalty to those close to him. He could have easily used this opportunity to display his superiority to Yuuri, to show Celestino and Minako that he was the one worth supporting. However, in the limited time they had to explain their strengths and strategies, he was talking up his competition. Yuuri couldn’t help but wonder if that would be his downfall in the end. Phichit was too good for a situation like this.

As soon as the view from the window changed to primarily rocks and hills, Minako confirmed that their destination was near. Once the train had passed through a long and mountain-covered tunnel, they would be in Capitol territory, and as soon as they emerged from the other side, it was easy to tell that things were different. Panem’s capitol city was like nothing Yuuri had ever seen. Every building they passed gleamed as the sun caressed its walls. Pastel shades of green, pink and blue made up the horizon. The train slowed and Yuuri caught a glimpse of the bustling city streets in more detail. The cars that passed him by were luxuriously large and shiny. The people stepping out of them donned extravagant outfits dyed in the brightest of hues. The shades of yellow on their clothes were enough to make Yuuri squint. He’d never seen fabric in such vivid shades of purple. Electric blues and fluorescent oranges made Minako’s cotton candy pink hair seem tame. It was a stark change when compared to the greys and browns more common in his home district.

The train eventually came to a stop, and Yuuri’s stomach was in knots. All of the decadent food he’d eaten throughout the journey was threatening to reappear as the dominant sounds in his ears changed. No longer could he hear the background noise of humming engines. Instead, he heard his name. Phichit’s, as well.

He knew that there would be reporters to interview him upon arrival, but he had never expected this many. There were enough of them in District Twelve, but now it seemed like their numbers had increased tenfold. Outside the windows of the train were a crowd of them, microphones in hands, and spherical cameras buzzing around them like flies. One fluttered towards the train window, a red light flickering as it hovered in front of Yuuri’s face. He stared at it with disdain as he knew it was recording, and that he couldn’t reach through the thick glass to swat at it like the bug it resembled. As he disregarded the camera and looked beyond, Yuuri saw a projection of himself upon a screen, one of many installed at the train station. On another, he saw Phichit, smiling and waving at the spectators. Pale and clammy with nerves, the two tributes couldn’t have looked more different in that moment.

“We’re here!” announced Minako with a certain sing-song element in her voice, suggesting that she was thrilled to be back at home, surrounded by luxury and grandeur. “Come on now, Yuuri. There’s nothing to be afraid of,” she insisted as she looked towards him with a smile. “In fact, this is where the fun begins! Once your stylist gets their hands on you, you’ll be even more gorgeous than you are now! Haven’t you always dreamed of having a glamorous makeover?”

Yuuri merely blinked in response. Sure, he had dreams. He dreamt of his family and friends never having to worry about how to get their next meal. He dreamt of going home and being able to hold his loved ones in his arms once more. He’d even had a questionable dream about Viktor Nikiforov the night before, but no, he had never once dreamt about a ‘glamorous makeover’.

From the moment he was taken into the custody of his styling team, Yuuri could only question Minako’s enthusiasm about such an experience. With the wandering eyes of three beauticians roaming his body like a piece of meat on display, he felt far from comfortable, and not remotely glamorous in the slightest. He was immediately stripped and scrubbed from head to toe, the repetitive friction and pressure on his skin turning it a raw shade of pink. As he caught sight of the beauticians’ repulsed expressions and heard them make hushed remarks to each other about his flaws, he had never felt more unattractive, or ashamed in his skin. In fact, he sensed that at this stage, he really was nothing more than a toy of the Capitol, for he was being made into something pretty to look at; someone the city’s materialistic citizens could find worthy of mourning after he perished. Beauty standards were certainly something else in the Capitol, he thought. The staff attending to him either had their hair permed and dyed a fluorescent hue, or their skin had been tinted in a light pastel shade. Come to think it, Yuuri couldn’t recall seeing a single person with hair as black as his.

“Perfect! A total dreamboat!” gleefully announced one of the beauticians, her tangerine locks swaying as she bounced on her toes with pride.

“Sorry if you’re sore, darling,” added another, a tiny smile blooming from her cobalt-painted lips, “Coal dust just likes to _linger_ in the skin, y’know? Oh, but you’re one of the most beautiful District Twelve tributes I’ve ever seen! Has anyone ever told you that your jawline is to die for? Where’d you get that done?”

The last question caught Yuuri off guard. “What?”

“Who’s your surgeon? Don’t tell me you were _born_ with that!”

“Of course he was!” butted in the third, her magenta eyes rolling as she inferred that her colleagues should know better. “The poor things can’t afford cosmetic upgrades in Twelve!” A sigh.

“I think we’re ready to send for Britta.”

“Who?” Yuuri asked, wondering how many more people were going to fuss over him. Wasn’t three of them enough? 

He eventually came to learn that his ‘glamorous makeover’ was far from over, and that the fabled Britta would be his senior stylist. She was in charge of making him look presentable in the eyes of the Capitol’s citizens. She would design and create his clothing for the tributes’ procession later that day, as well as his interview attire for the night before the games. His ability to gain sponsors, and hence his longevity in the Games, had a lot to do with how good she was at her job, and how desirable she could make him look. While Yuuri supposed that he could make himself endearing, he didn’t know if he could improve much more in the eye candy department, even though the beauticians’ remarks boosted his self-esteem by a fraction. He could only imagine as to what was happening to Viktor. He was stunning even at first glance. Surely, he had to look godly by now.

The people of the Capitol were certainly fans of elegance and drama, and Britta was no exception. She burst into the room with a fearlessness he wasn’t used to seeing, wearing fabrics and colours he’d never seen in the flesh. Golden sequins illuminated her top half, while her shoulders were shrouded by the darkness of a black feathered scarf. Her hair, which climbed almost a foot atop her head, was a shade of black so dark that Yuuri barely fathomed its existence. It was even more of an unexpected sight for him, considering that everything in the Capitol he’d seen so far was of a soft pastel hue. His instinct was to be frightened of her, especially since she had been given so much power over him and his image. However, once she smiled, he began to feel more at ease, and she wrapped her arms around him in a way that made him feel warm and safe, although he knew he was far from it. She was going to take care of him, and she was going to do her best for him.

“You must be Yuuri Katsuki,” she purred after shooing her assistants away. “It’s a pleasure.”

“Nice to meet you,” he murmured in response.

“Come and sit with me,” said Britta with a smile. “I’m sure you’re hungry, and we need to brainstorm.” 

Yuuri was beginning to lose count of how much food he’d had in the last day. It had to be more than what would usually feed him back home for a week, he thought. Still, he salivated at the sight of his newest meal; a bowl of rice topped with fried pork pieces, vegetables and condiments that came together to the form his new favourite aroma. He ate a speed four times faster than Britta and she often caught him stealing glances at his elated expression. Still, he listened as he ate, knowing how the conversation was likely going to proceed. District Twelve was the coal district of Panem, and it was customary for the tributes to attend the procession in costumes that reflected their homes. Yuuri and Phichit were going to be dressed up in unflattering coal miner costumes, and he didn’t expect for the concept to deviate much from there.

“My only request is,” he piped up between mouthfuls, “that it’s not like that time a few years ago where the tributes were basically naked and covered in coal dust. My family do _not_ need to see that, and I don’t think anyone would want to sponsor me afterwards.” Yuuri knew that he would take a baggy and trivial-looking miners’ costume over that any day.

“Hey,” the stylist spoke up before he could continue, “You could absolutely pull that look off, Yuuri. You’re very attractive; I hope you know that. You know what? Brainstorm over. I’ve made my decision.”

He almost choked on his food. She mustn’t have seen many of the other tributes. 

Britta had burst into laughter. “I would never do that to you, darling! _Please_ , I have taste.”

The two of them spent about an hour in each other’s company, talking about their lives and interests, both within and beyond the realms of fashion. They discussed fabrics and textures, or more rather, Britta spoke and Yuuri listened, nodding and shaking his head at various swatches until settling on ones that he liked. They eventually got to the subject of history, and the times before Panem. It was something Britta used to draw inspiration for her designs, particularly using themes from ancient civilisations known as Rome and Greece. They had deities and gods to worship in those times long past, and it was a concept which Yuuri found strange to understand. Still, he listened on in fascination as Britta told stories of love and war and the celestial beings who personified such concepts, ethereal as ever as they mingled amongst the living.

“So you want me to be like the God of Coal?”

“I want you to _feel_ like a god!” she reiterated, “I’m going to make sure that you do.” 

He was reunited with Phichit several hours later, and he looked almost unrecognisable. It was hard to believe that he was also from District Twelve given his new affluent appearance. Then again, it was also a difficult thing to believe after seeing himself. Britta had told him that there were real diamonds used to embellish his costume, and Yuuri couldn’t decide if such a thing was wonderous or disgusting. Of course, coal turned to diamonds with enough pressure and heat, so it was apt for the district’s representation. Still, the fact that the Capitol stylists were housing such expensive and precious stones while his family was starving made him uncomfortable. Aside from the diamond details, the skin-tight black ensemble shimmered with silver glitter under the sunlight, and had grey mesh panelling across the right side of his chest and his right arm. The finishing touch was nothing other than coal dust, forming a fine black mist that trailed each of his movements.

The first thing he noticed about Phichit was his shoulders. Padded, broad and feathered, the younger tribute looked like a bird of prey; undoubtedly a fierce predator. His costume had a lot of similarities to his own, as was expected. Clouds of black mist followed his arms as he gestured with them in pleasure. The diamond embellishments on his torso glimmered as Phichit spoke and walked alongside him. They were in a large stable, where twelve-horse drawn carriages were lined up behind a rather intimidating looking gate. The jet black horses pulling the carriage for District Twelve were near the stable’s back entrance, so Yuuri and Phichit had the ability to watch the other tributes passing them by. 

He spotted Viktor and Georgi briefly as they made their way to the front of the stable, and his heart fluttered with excitement. His eyes were fixed on Viktor, shimmering and spectacular in a holographic blazer, tiny rainbows dancing over his sides as the light changed. It hung open to showcase his impeccable physique smeared with glitter, and Yuuri pursed his lips as his eyes lingered on his chiselled abdomen. Yuuri wondered if Phichit had noticed him staring, his eyes widening as his gaze wandered about Viktor’s figure. He knew there was one person who had caught him.

Their eyes met and Yuuri felt like he’d been struck by lightning, a shiver travelling down his spine. Viktor’s eyes were a piercing blue, brighter and more marvellous than the sky. It lasted for a moment, but to Yuuri, it felt longer. More so than seeing him on screen, he was drawn to the District One tribute and filled with intrigue. How he wanted to get closer to him and engage himself in conversation but alas, the attention was fleeting, and he was gone in no time. It wasn't long until he was instead staring at a perplexed-looking Yuri Plisetsky, who only shook his head and continued to his carriage, a floor-length golden cape billowing behind him. 

Regal-sounding music began to play and Yuuri immediately looked to Phichit to support. He wondered as to how his best friend could remain so still and composed. It was something he’d dwelled on from the moment that he volunteered for the games. _It seemed like the right thing to do_ , he had told him, but Yuuri didn’t think of it as a satisfactory answer. There had to be something else. In the midst of his thoughts, he felt something squeeze his fingers. Phichit’s grip was so tight that his knuckles were pushed together and the sides of his hand ached. After two days of introductions and nervousness, there was no denying that the Hunger Games spectacle had well and truly begun. The tribute prep teams and the horse minders backed away from the carriages as large iron gates swung open and a mammoth crowd erupted with cheers and applause. The ride through to the City Circle supposedly lasted around twenty minutes. The fact that there were people even waiting by the stable made Yuuri question if every last person in the Capitol was in the audience.

He didn’t let go of Phichit as the first carriage departed. He heard the crowd roar with excitement as Viktor and Georgi were presented to them for the first time. Screens inside the stable showed the grins on the spectators’ faces, and the roses that they threw to the tributes as they waved. Confident and charming as ever, it wasn’t surprising that they were being greeted with such enthusiasm. District One tributes had always been among the favourites to win, and it wasn’t going to change this year.

Yuri and Mila emerged in gold, and the audiences were enchanted. Decorated head to toe in shimmering spikes and spirals, the District Two tributes looked both elegant and ferocious, like royalty but also the deadliest of warriors. Each time a new set of tributes left the stable, the Capitol citizens cheered. White horses led Christophe Giacometti and Jean-Jacques Leroy into the streets, and Michele and Sara Crispino of District Four were in a carriage pulled by chestnut brown mares. It was no surprise that the siblings were in costumes inspired by merpeople. It was almost a guarantee for the fishing district.

Guang-Hong Ji and Leo de la Iglesia looked even younger in person than they did on screen. As District Eleven’s carriage left the stable, all Yuuri could think was that they appeared too kind-hearted to be thrust into such a brutal environment. Still, he supposed, the goodness in their faces could all be part of an act to gain sponsors. In that moment, he hated himself for even considering such a thing. However, he didn’t have much time to ponder for his own carriage was well and truly edging forward. Phichit’s grip on his hand remained tight until they were ready to pass through the gates. As the cameras and crowds began to shift their focus, he let go.

“We’re strong,” he heart Phichit murmur, unsure if it was directed to Yuuri or himself, “We have to show them that we’re strong.”

He was right.

They were the longest twenty minutes that he had ever experienced, but he kept a brave face not just for himself or Phichit, but for his sister, and his parents and loved ones back home. He waved at the cameras despite a bubbling urge he had to bat them away. His cheeks ached from giving false smiles to his ‘fans’; those who eagerly awaited his death on screen. The entire procession was sickening, and he truly felt like a lamb being led to slaughter. However instead of going straight to the abattoir, he was being led to the President of Panem and the Gamemakers, mostly absurdly-dressed older men with thin smiles and receding hairlines. The twelve carriages stopped before them in a half-circle, all turned towards the high balcony where they were subject to their collectively patronising gazes. The tributes were like toys on display, and the Gamemakers were the spoiled children bent on destruction.

Cheers continued as the carriages paraded in a circle once more before exiting to the Training Centre building. Yuuri nervously awaited being taken into custody once more, and being guided on what he should do once combat assessment began. The next three days, likely his last three full days, were to be spent practising and mastering various skills needed for survival and battle. On top of that, he would be thoroughly scrubbed, made up and put into ridiculous costumes for the joy of his potential sponsors. He would sit for an interview and be teased with heart-wrenchingly personal questions, then expected to answer with a smile, although his desperation for his mother and his home would shine through watery eyes. Of course, at this point, Yuuri’s feelings didn’t matter in the slightest.

He belonged to the Capitol now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> If any of you are artists, I would love to know if you accept commissions, so feel free to make yourself known in the comments! We can talk about it on twitter if you'd like! :)


	6. Weapon of Choice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience with this one! Work has been kicking my butt and I've found that this chapter required quite a bit of research on my part! Enjoy! - YuriPirozkhi

_Stand with your feet shoulder-width apart, and at a ninety-degree angle to the target. Relax your grip on the handle._

The cold metal bow felt heavy in his hands, and he could tell by its appearance that it was likely very expensive. The target before him looked an eternity away, and Yuuri gave a frustrated sigh. He would manage to hit it eventually, he convinced himself. He had never wielded a weapon like this before, and in the three days of training before the Games, he would have time to learn and grow competent in many new skills. It was reassuring to know that there were survival gurus and weapons experts present to guide the tributes and prepare them for what was to come. Without them, Yuuri would enter the arena knowing only how to shoot darts and make snares, and only crude ones at that.

The archery expert was a broadly built man who seemed only a few years his senior, and Yuuri looked wide-eyed to him for approval before advancing to the next step. He had only been at this particular station for a few minutes, but he had already been exposed to so much information, and learned more about bows and arrows than he thought he would in a lifetime. For example, aside from the string, the bow was divided into separate parts called the handle and the limbs. Also, a tiny brass piece called a nocking point had plenty to do with where the arrow actually went. His shoulder and elbow had to be rotated a certain way, and he needed to hear a click as the arrow was placed on the string. How he would remember such instructions during the games when his mind was abuzz, Yuuri wasn’t sure, but he hoped that his learning would consolidate over the coming hours and days.

 _Place one finger above the arrow, and two fingers below. It should sit in the last crease of your fingers, closest to the fingertips. Good, Yuuri. Elbow up. A little more. A little less._

The archer’s instructions began to sound like background noise after a while, as much as Yuuri wanted to devote his utmost attention. He couldn’t help but eavesdrop on the tributes close to him, catching snippets of their conversations with other combat experts and with each other, a couple of alliances even starting to bloom. Shaking his head, Yuuri refocused. He already had an alliance. He had Phichit, and he was good. He was certainly better than the frail and likely malnourished tributes from District Ten, frightened with good reason as they approached an axe-throwing station together. Yuuri would fare much better in archery, or at least he hoped.

His first arrow missed the target completely. It was down to the fact that he’d pulled the arrow back using his biceps and not his back muscles, or so the instructor said. That, and his nerves weren’t helping in his efforts, instead causing his arms to shake. Shooting an arrow also required much more strength than Yuuri had first thought, but he felt as if he was managing, and that he would improve with each new attempt. 

His second shot failed to hit the target as well, and the third left much to be desired. Yuuri only continued to grow more and more frustrated as time went on, and beads of sweat began to form on his brow. His disdain for archery reached an all-time high at the moment when Mila Babicheva came into view, assembling a weapon at the station directly next to him. 

She wielded her bow with ease, getting into the correct stance and drawing the tight string of her bow to the corner of her mouth. It was hard for Yuuri to get a proper look at her technique, for she moved at a speed that was ten times his own. The slender young woman didn’t even look fazed as her arrow hit the centre of the target. Instead, she shrugged, repeated her assembly and hit another bullseye. 

“Alright, I’m done,” she murmured before turning backwards to her blond district partner, “You go.”

Yuri Plisetsky wasn’t quite as fast to assume the correct stance and nock his arrow, but this was also not his strength. Still, he already proved to be more competent at it than Yuuri, he thought. There was no doubt that the District Two tributes were well-practiced, likely in a range of combat strategies.

“Yuri,” Mila murmured to him with caution, “Elbow.”

“Mm.” He seemed to know what that meant.

His two shots landed closely to Mila’s arrows, missing the target’s centre by what looked like an inch. He appeared content with his efforts, but Yuuri could see the young woman’s lips scrunch up from the corner of his eye. She didn’t appear too impressed, like she was a pushy coach rather than a tribute like everybody else.

“When am I even gonna use this?” the boy asked with a huff.

“If I go first and you take my weapon from me, I expect you to use it _properly._ It’s _important._ ”

“Mila…”

Yuuri felt her gaze on him, her eyes boring into his side like scalding hot lasers. Perhaps his sneaky side glances and eavesdropping were more obvious than he’d thought. It likely made itself clear in the fact that he hadn’t fired a single arrow in the time it took Mila and Yuri to shoot four. In the moments that followed, he found himself feeling smaller, incompetent and childlike despite being one of the older tributes in training. He wished to hide himself in darkness, to flee to one of the camouflaging stations and cover himself in sap and mosses, hoping that he could escape Yuri Plisetsky’s cold death stare and the verbal daggers that Mila directed at him with each remark.

“Don’t provoke him too much,” she warned her district partner, “He’ll run faster when he sees you and he’ll be harder to kill.”

“You seriously think he could outrun me?” asked Yuri, raising an eyebrow.

Mila sighed. “You’ve got a point.”

Yuuri was quick to decide that perhaps archery wouldn’t be his forte. He retreated from the station disheartened, wondering how likely it would be that his eventual killer would come from District Two. The target on his head seemed to grow larger with each word that spurted from their lips. At this stage, he was an easy target, someone who people like Mila and Yuri thought was laughable. Celestino had told him about Career Tributes and how they could be; Yuuri couldn’t deny that he was exaggerating even in the slightest. They weren’t even in the arena yet and Yuuri felt like a piece of meat, like of the wild turkeys that he and Phichit used to hunt back at home.

His metaphorical tail between his legs, he found solace at a station that helped him to reassess and confirm his strengths. No combat experience was tested or required to be a master at this particular skill, and seeing it made Yuuri smirk with confidence. Before him was a list of some fifty wild plants and fungi, most of which he recognised from the lush fields in Twelve. The purpose of the station was for the tributes to identify as many of the plant species as they could from pictures, and categorise them according to whether they were edible, medicinal or poisonous. Of course, food would be hard to come by in the arena without the aid of sponsors, so to have background knowledge of the potential herbs and fruits that could be found would serve the tributes well. Those who weren’t as well-versed could easily fall prey to the lethal traps of attractive fruits that were deceptively loaded with venom, and those who knew better could use them as traps. That was Yuuri’s plan.

The survival expert beside him watched on with satisfaction as he categorised the plants without as much as a second thought. Aloe Vera was used to serve minor cuts and burns, and could help to bring moisture to dry skin. _Medicinal._ Clovers. _Edible._ Dandelions. _Edible._ Nightlock. _Poisonous._ Golden root helped the body adapt to stress and was also used as a natural antidepressant. _Medicinal._ Yuuri wasn’t sure of what was in the next picture, but given that it was a mushroom he didn’t recognise, he took a guess and hoped for the best. _Poisonous. Correct._ He knew better than to eat a strange mushroom in in the wild, and he hoped it was a type of common sense that not everyone possessed.

He caught a glimpse of Phichit from the corner of his eye, tying knots and assembling traps, also focusing on his obvious strengths and making them skills to envy. It seemed like a good idea, for both of them only had experience dealing with small animals. It wasn’t likely that their nets and snares would trap something as large as a whole person, even though Yuri Plisetsky looked shorter in person than he’d expected. 

Phichit looked confident, and like his abilities were progressing nicely. The survival expert at his station was smiling at him, and even patting him on the back to tell him how well he was doing. Large nets made from woven plant fibres surrounded him, as well as stakes that he’d fashioned from tree branches and a dagger. 

Yuuri smiled at his best friend’s progress. It was almost like the two of them, together, would have a fighting chance of surviving a while. They knew how to look after themselves in the wild, he thought to himself. They knew about draining water and building a fire. Yuuri could guide them to food and Phichit could protect their area with traps and poison lures. No offensive combat necessary. It was almost a nice thought to think that in the perfect scenario, he could get out of the arena alive without any blood directly on his hands.

Then he remembered that Phichit couldn’t leave with him.

Yuuri cast his eyes away from the station and instead focused on the ceiling in an attempt to clear his mind. He didn’t want to think about a life without his best friend; he couldn’t. What would happen if they were left the final two standing? Would they have it in them to fight each other to the death? Would the Gamemakers bring in mutated beasts to charge and hunt them if they refused? Then it occurred to Yuuri that such a situation was extremely unlikely. It happened as he spotted the pale face of District Six’s Seung-Gil Lee amongst the charcoal grey ceiling. How he had managed to climb up there so subtly and quietly was a mystery. All Yuuri knew was that in a real Games context, Seung-Gil could have easily killed him in the seconds gone by, especially with the advantage of stealth on his side. It lead him to think, in a one-on-one altercation with another tribute, how would he attempt to defend himself? 

For the second time that day, Yuuri ventured to a combat station. The choice was mostly random aside from the fact that it seemed as far away from Mila and Yuri as he could get. The last thing he needed was to have his concentration destroyed by their taunts and conceited laughter. Knowing they were on the other side of the training room made him feel more at peace, and he approached the sword fighting station with a nervous feeling in his stomach, but also with mild optimism. Wielding a sword had to be easier than shooting an arrow from a bow, thought Yuuri. There weren’t any tiny brass pieces or clicking sounds to watch out for, for one.

“Your left foot is the leading foot, so put that in front,” the supervisor began as he guided Yuuri into position, “and the right foot is at the back. Make sure both feet are facing forward. Good.”

He picked up the longsword and was once again surprised by its weight. Then again, given its composition and purpose, its heaviness made sense. He was wielding a serious combat weapon, forged from the sturdiest of metals and sharpened to be lethal when used competently. His right hand clutched the top of the sword’s grip, just under the crossguard, while his left held the grip lower down. With the pointed blade shimmering in the corner of his vision, Yuuri felt like a warrior. If he could master a few basic strikes with a weapon like this, it would really help him during the Games, he thought. Of course, swords were hard to come by in the arena, but he could always be gifted one from a sponsor if he was lucky enough.

With the weapons expert at the station, Yuuri eventually learned how to perform a basic strike from above. It was a single fluid movement, but he learned it broken up into three parts: the outreach of his arms, the step forward, and the downward swing. The three elements were practised a number of times before being combined into a single strike, and to Yuuri’s pleasant surprise, he was praised for his efforts. His swing dealt so much damage to his practice dummy that a noticeable dent was made in its neck. He exhaled deeply and admired the ‘critically wounded’ dummy with satisfaction. Perhaps, he thought, he might not be half bad at defending himself.

“I would’ve cut its head off, no problem,” murmured another tribute from nearby, “I bet I could cut the whole thing in half.”

Yuuri lowered his sword and glanced sideways, wondering who had chosen to promote themselves so confidently. He didn’t sound much like Yuri, and it had him questioning if yet another person had taken to viewing him as an easy target.

“Mickey, _shut up,_ ” urged Sara, nudging her brother in the side as Yuuri caught her eye.

“What? It’s true!” he protested.

“If you keep on saying things like that, people are gonna think you’re too arrogant to form an alliance. That guy with the sword isn’t bad.” 

Mickey huffed, clearly not pleased with where the conversation was heading. “How many times do I have to tell you, Sara? We don’t _need_ an alliance. There’s no way I’m trusting anyone else but myself to protect you.”

“Whatever. I’m gonna see what _he’s_ up to,” she announced, pointing to a light-haired young man in the distance, Emil Nekola, with a number five marked on the back of his training shirt.

“Hey, wait!” he yelled before chasing after his sister.

Yuuri merely blinked and turned back to his station, hoping not to garner much more attention. He still remained happy with his first few swings, and it wasn’t long until he was able to advance to a new technique. Knowing how to attack was all well and good, the supervisor reminded him, but knowing how to counter someone’s offence was just as important. He stepped away from the weapons experts’ planned attack, getting out of the way of his blade, then struck it firmly with his own. Keeping the blade steady involved applying a lot of pressure, and it was important so that he could control his opponent. The next part involved tilting his blade towards the opponent’s throat or head, and thrusting forward. Of course, Yuuri didn’t kill his instructor, but now he definitely had the skill to put a fellow tribute to death. In a way, he found it rather frightening.

While stopping for a drink of water, Yuuri took a moment to glance about the training room, and observe as to what the other tributes were doing. Many of them were paying most attention to the combat stations, some even having lines of people waiting to take part. The survival stations had less people, and Yuuri supposed he could understand as to why. It was down to figuring out if the environment or the other tributes posed more of a threat to your life, and most people supposed the latter. They were sure likely to kill you faster, Yuuri assumed. Even he had the knowledge on how to kill a person, and each tribute in the room was being armed with it as he watched. He had been taught how to defend himself against a swordsman’s attack, and use a counterstrike to fatally wound them. He thought of who’d likely have such a rare and expensive weapon, and he pictured people like Georgi Popovic and-

“Sara was right, by the way.”

Viktor Nikiforov.

The sound of his voice made him jump, but he soon turned to face the older man, eyes wide in disbelief. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. As far as the District One tribute was concerned, Yuuri thought of him to be in an entirely different league from himself; a much better league suited for people who had a chance of winning these awful Games. Even after spending most of the day in training, Viktor looked barely fatigued, and the beads of sweat on his brow only helped to make his face glimmer in a way that matched his attention-stealing eyes. 

“W-what?” queried Yuuri, struggling to form his words.

“Sara was right, about your swordsmanship,” Viktor repeated, “You’re a very fast learner.”

He couldn’t tell if he was being serious, because Yuuri didn’t think such a statement was true at all. If only Viktor had seen how abysmal he had been at the archery station, then perhaps he wouldn’t have said such a thing. However, he was very flattered to receive the attention, especially since he didn’t think in his wildest dreams that Viktor would be the one to approach him first, let alone speak kindly to him and treat him like a human being. He already felt in the older man’s debt. He didn’t deserve to be complimented for his efforts by someone like him, who could surely do so much better and be so much deadlier, even with his eyes closed. Yet here he was, talking to him when he could have been easily keeping his eye on more skilled tributes and trying to form alliances with them.

“You really think so?”

“Yeah, I was watching. I heard you mention it was your first time with a sword.”

Yuuri’s heart skipped a beat. Viktor was _watching._

“It is,” he admitted, “and I heard that you’re really good, so this means a lot.”

Viktor gave a thin smile in response. “I’m alright.”

Although Yuuri didn’t know the other man at all, he had a feeling that he was being incredibly modest. He remembered what Celestino had said about him, and how the crowds at the Capitol roared for him more eagerly than they did for anyone else. Viktor was an immensely skilled fighter, from a rich district and with good health and good looks on his side. As charming as he seemed, Yuuri wouldn’t have been surprised if he was incredibly modest as well. He was sure that he was far from ‘alright’. There was a certain confidence in his expression that made Yuuri’s heart skip a beat. The intensity in his gaze had his entire body blushing. Yuuri couldn’t tear his focus away from Viktor if he tried. He wanted, no, he craved to see him in action.

“Can I see?”

Viktor wet his bottom lip before responding. 

“Okay.”

Yuuri watched with intrigue as the silver-haired beauty advanced towards the longsword, the very same weapon that he’d been wielding a few minutes prior. He picked it up like it was made of feathers, and held it as if it was an extension of his being. Viktor Nikiforov was born to use a sword, or perhaps such a weapon was invented just for him. The fact that he looked so natural with a deadly weapon in his grasp was beautifully frightening, and Yuuri was aware that if he witnessed such a sight in the arena, he wouldn’t live to see much more. The blunt tip of the longsword was pointed directly at the station’s weapons expert as an invitation to spar, and the younger man felt the beginnings of a lump form in his throat as he watched on in anticipation.

“Yuuri,” cooed Viktor as he briefly peered towards him, “Don’t take your eyes off of me, okay?”

He nodded with certainty. There was no way he’d be tempted to look anywhere else. It was like asking a rock to stay put, and he was far too mesmerised to move a muscle. After all, Viktor knew his name. He knew his name and he spoke his name and it rolled off of his tongue in a way that sounded magnificently new. Hearing it made his chest tighten and his knees grow weak. He wanted to hear it again and again, His jaw hung open and his eyes were wide like saucers, taking in as much of the view before him as humanly possible. He could only wonder what he’d done to capture this kind of attention, but he was glad all the same.

Tension in the air was thick as Viktor and the weapons expert circled each other slowly with their swords at the ready. It was almost like the sounds of clashing metal and the sighs and grunts of other tributes had been temporarily silenced, or at least it felt that way to Yuuri. All he could hear was his heart beating in his ears as he tried to guess who would strike first. Viktor lunged forward seconds later, and his offence was immediately blocked. However, he was quick to respond to his opponent’s attack in the same way. It didn’t look like much, thought Yuuri, for it seemed like the blades were crashing together with each second that passed, but the fact that no major blows had been dealt meant that they were both very skilled. He imagined that in the same situation, he would have been sliced and diced to pieces by now. But this wasn’t about him, he reminded himself. His focus was on Viktor, and how he made a brutally offensive strike, an attempted fatal thrust to the chest, look so incredibly graceful. His gaze was fixated on his sculpted arm muscles as they flexed and stretched with each swing. His thoughts were on Viktor’s look of deep concentration, and how he wished that he could stare into his own eyes with such passion and intensity, possibly while he spoke his name once again.

“Perhaps you ought to be the teacher, and I, the tribute,” airily said the station’s expert, conceding defeat, “Incredible swordsmanship.”

Although he was heavily protected with armour and was completely unharmed, in a real life combat situation, Viktor would have surely killed him. Yuuri watched on in awe, the realisation that Viktor was his competition yet to hit him. Instead of feeling frightened or nervous from the outcome, all he could do was applaud. ‘Alright’ was a gross understatement. He was remarkable.

“That was amazing!” exclaimed Yuuri, still taken aback as Viktor put away his weapon.

“You really think so?”

He swore that his heart skipped a beat. Beautiful, talented _and_ humble.

“Of course.”

He watched Viktor turn towards him and brush stray hairs from his eyes. As the older man approached him, Yuuri didn’t know whether to stay put or move back. He felt his palms start to sweat and his mouth grow dry as he came closer. His knees began to give way as he found himself intoxicated by the mixture of Viktor’s natural scent and his radiating body heat. He felt like he was about to be smothered by his broad shoulders, left to suffocate as the oxygen close to him was pushed away in favour of Viktor’s warm breath. Yuuri could feel his pulse hammering his eardrums as his heart began to race. Could Viktor sense his nervousness? He wondered if he could read the mixture of fear and fascination etched into his features.

“Would you like to learn some tricks?” Viktor all but purred into his ear.

Yuuri shivered involuntarily. He might as well have been propositioned. 

“Y-yes.”

“Pick up the sword.” His voice was soft, inviting even, but there was no questioning the seriousness of his command.

“Okay,” rep.lied Yuuri, hoping with every fibre in his body that he wasn’t making a fool of himself. He took hold of the weapon in the way the station expert had told him, or as closely as he could remember. His right hand gripped the handle just below the crossguard, and the left was placed underneath, his hands touching.

“No.”

Yuuri’s eyes widened in panic.

“What?”

He felt Viktor’s hand envelop his own, and he almost let go of the sword completely. His lower hand was guided further towards the pommel, and the older tribute kept it there. 

“You’ll have more strength and control this way.”

Yuuri was glad that he was standing behind him, so that he couldn’t see the scarlet tinge bloom across his cheeks. Still, part of him thought that Viktor knew what kind of effect he had on him. He likely had it on everyone. Butterflies filled Yuuri’s stomach as he felt the older man’s chest press against his upper back, his steady breaths tickling the skin of his neck. He’d never felt so excited to be near someone, to have someone’s hands touch his own. He’d never had goosebumps form on his skin from a single touch. Each time that Viktor’s hands roamed from his hands to his shoulders to fix his stance, or to his waist to better his posture, Yuuri found himself falling into him. It wasn’t the kind of touch that made him feel safe. It was quite different from that. It was the kind of touch that made him feel electric. He felt exhilarated. 

He wanted more.

All throughout the time that Viktor was close to him, guiding him in the art of swordsmanship, Yuuri could only ask himself how he was managing to stay still, to stay focused. Then again, he supposed that he spent more time thinking about the other man’s hands rather than his own. Viktor’s hands, strong and skilled in manipulating deadly weapons, held him gently but just firmly enough to keep him from melting. He wished that their training together could last forever, or that he could spend more time with Viktor at the very least. However, he was conscious that time was passing, and that as much as he dreaded to think of it, the tributes would soon have to retire to their rooms for dinner, not to re-emerge until the next day.

The siren marking the end of training sounded a lot sooner than Yuuri thought it would.

“You improved a lot today,” Viktor told him sincerely. “Definitely the best first-timer I’ve seen.”

Yuuri was so surprised by his remark that he didn’t know what to say.

“It’s probably because of such mentoring,” he teased, gesturing vaguely to himself and flashing a cheeky grin in his direction. “By the way,” Viktor continued, “I consider you my ally now. Anyone who tries to hurt you in the arena will have to deal with me, and if our paths cross, I won’t touch you.”

His choice of words was not one that Yuuri favoured. Already, his skin ached to feel the gentle brush of Viktor’s fingers. His body yearned for him as he turned away and walked towards the exit doors with a grace akin to a Capitol fashion model. Yuuri gasped with he stopped and turned on his heels, his eyes immediately locking with his.

“You don’t trust me, do you?”

A pause.

“It’s alright, Yuuri. I understand,” he reassured him, “but I’d like it if you did.” 

Viktor winked at him and his chest tightened. He desperately hoped that he felt the same way as he did; that he felt an immense desire to be near him, and that he felt a strangely addicting mixture of nervousness and joy when he saw him. It didn’t occur to him until the end of the day that he had spent quite a lot of time with Viktor when he should have been exploring other stations. Could he have spent his time learning more useful skills? Did he care? With Viktor around, it was hard for him to think of anything or anyone else. For the first time in days, Yuuri had let his mind focus on something other than the impending Games, his imminent death, and the fact that there was a potential enemy in everyone around him.

He forgot that Viktor was supposed to kill him.


	7. Strength and Weakness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri becomes unsure of his alliances, and his prospects in competition, during the final two days of training.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience with this one. Things have been super hectic offline, and I really appreciate it :) - YuriPirozkhi

For the first time in days, Yuuri Katsuki was faced with a familiar situation. He woke in his room at the Training Centre and knew what to expect, at least for the most part. It was the second day in the centre, and there would be no new surprises. It was something he told himself to remain calm as he gazed out of his bedroom window. He repeated the statement in his mind as he showered, and as he made himself known in the living area of the District Twelve suite. The course of the day was set, and nothing would change. Live in the moment, he said in his mind, and make the most of what’s been given. With the facilities they had to better their skills, everyone had a chance to win the games. Yuuri had a chance.

He was happy to see Phichit’s familiar face, greeting him with a smile as he emerged from his sleeping quarters. It was even somewhat comforting to see Celestino sitting next to him, however less chirpy he was in comparison. Yuuri was growing used to hearing the rather confronting advice from his mentor, but it was in line with what he’d heard for two days prior. They didn’t have much time left to prepare, hence every ounce of Celestino’s wisdom was helpful and cherished. Even though the stories from his own games were rather frightening and gruesome, hearing them was expected, and Yuuri found himself wincing less frequently as the mentor described his brutal victory in detail. Minako’s conversation was lighter in contrast, and as much as Yuuri wanted to thank her for it, he feared the idea of the Capitol escort with an even larger sense of pride than before. To keep tight-lipped seemed in his best interest.

The quiet atmosphere remained as he and Phichit descended twelve floors to the training room, in an elevator built with walls of crystal. Moments without being bombarded with cameras or eyeballed by fellow tributes were few and far between, so such were perfect to think. Yuuri felt slightly more calm than he did the previous day, mainly because he knew what would lie before him. He knew where all the stations were and what they involved. He knew to avoid the archery station like the plague, for there was no way that his skills would advance to a decent level in two days. He considered visiting the sword wielding station again, especially if a certain District One tribute happened to be there. However, the more he thought about exchanging more electrifying words and touches with Viktor, the more he realised that it would be unlikely. The dashing older man had wasted too much of his time with him already, Yuuri told himself. He had other, more important things to do.

Then again, they were allies now. That had to mean something.

Seeing Viktor walk past him without acknowledgement made his chest ache. Watching him make acquaintances with other tributes, giving them the attention that he craved, made him feel sick. Yuuri turned all but green with envy as he watched an alliance between Viktor and Christophe Giacometti bloom before his eyes. 

Tall, fit, and from a much richer district than Twelve, Chris was quite the upgrade from Yuuri, or so he thought. He carried himself in a way that suggested high self-confidence, and had no qualms in talking to Viktor like they were equals, like they would make quite the team and wreak havoc in the Games’ arena. He had strong back and arm muscles that rippled through the fabric of his training shirt, and a flawless smile that would surely earn him a lot of sponsors. However, when he wasn’t bearing his teeth and fluttering his thick eyelashes, the tribute from District Three gave looks that could kill. 

Yuuri had no reason to believe that Chris couldn’t kill him, especially after he’d seen him put a hole in one of the training centre walls. He didn’t doubt that he could snap his spine in half if he got close enough.

He considered approaching them and attempting to strike up a conversation, but his time to learn and train was already limited. If Viktor had moved on and forgotten yesterday, forgotten their alliance, then Yuuri would have no choice but to move on as well, he told himself. His stomach knotted by a mixture of confusion and betrayal, he peeled his eyes away from Viktor. He was the man who’d brought light to his yesterday and a calm to his dreams, but Yuuri felt that he’d be better off with Chris. At least _he_ had a decent chance of surviving past the first day. He could deal strong offensive blows without hesitation or fear. He could stop a smaller tribute in their tracks with one arm, and choke them to death with the other. He and Viktor could annihilate most the competition with little difficulty, and one of them could easily end up winning the games altogether. It was in Viktor’s best interest to stay with him. Yuuri would only hold him back.

Although his alliance had seemingly crumbled to nothing as quickly as it had begun, Yuuri still knew that there was always one person on whom he could count. He found Phichit rather quickly, mainly because he could hear his sigh of relief and could recognise his voice without question. He had just successfully navigated an obstacle course set up by the survival experts and had his efforts timed. It turned out that he was rather good at climbing ropes and moving quickly on his stomach, with a course completion time seconded only by Emil Nekola of District Five. Yuuri could easily tell that Phichit’s skills were vastly improving as the hours passed, for he was showcasing skills that had never made themselves known back at Twelve. He was already more confident in himself than he was yesterday, and looked much more like a serious contender than the laughing stock he thought himself to be. Yuuri still felt much like the latter. 

“Hey,” greeted Phichit between breaths, “No Viktor today?”

He looked to the ground for a moment before pursing his lips. “I was an idiot,” Yuuri concluded, “I don’t know why I got my hopes up.”

“Because he’s _gorgeous._ ”

Yuuri opened his mouth but refrained from speaking. Phichit sure had him with that remark. If the Hunger Games was more of a beauty pageant and less of a bloodbath, Viktor would win with flying colours. However, even in its current format, he was one of the favourites to win. Yuuri’s chances of ending up amongst the final few tributes were slim to say the least. Still, to remain optimistic, he reminded himself that he had Phichit to depend on, so long as their friendship remained strong. Together they could fare better than those without allies, using visual illusions and traps to lure their competition to their demise. Although someone like Viktor was surely too smart and skilled to fall for such tactics, Yuuri supposed that they could trip someone up with their tricks.

That was when someone, quite literally, tripped in between them.

Kenjirou Minami from District Nine was a slightly built boy of seventeen, his mustard-coloured hair mingled with a splash of red at the front. He came crashing towards them following the triumphant laughter of Michele Crispino, who had extended his large foot and blocked the younger boy’s path. Slender arms flailing, Minami collided head-on with a cabinet of camouflage and art supplies, causing its contents to fall and scatter about the Training Centre floor. It was almost certain that he was the new laughing stock amongst the tributes, for it seemed that nearly everyone was distracted from their stations, their eyes on him as they judged, and a few of them giving soft chuckles in amusement.

Yuuri crouched to help him without hesitation, gathering the fallen brushes from the floor and bundling them in his hands. He picked up the jars of spilled dirt and body paint and was quick to re-attach their lids. He looked Minami over for any cuts or grazes, and helped him back to his feet, all while the great majority of others were watching in curious silence. Of course, some had gone back to their training, for the novelty of the fall was gone and the time they had was precious, but Yuuri couldn’t simply ignore that someone was in need of help. He noticed that Phichit was also doing his part in clearing the area. Yuuri caught a glimpse of him in the corner of his eye and smiled; he really was the best friend in the world, better than anyone he could have conjured in his mind. The hostility of the environment hadn’t changed his heart, or at least, it hadn’t yet. Hoping to push such a thought out of his mind, Yuuri continued to focus on the matter at hand.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Minami assured him, a slight cheeriness in his voice, even now. “I’m starting to get used to being picked on. It’s no secret that I’m an easy target.” He trailed off and looked at his shoes, scuffed from being knocked and taking tumbles. 

“It’s better to not be cocky,” Yuuri advised. It was upsetting for him to talk to Minami like this. He seemed to be a genuinely sweet boy, who didn’t deserve such a gruesome and tragic fate. He wondered what kind of smile he had, before every reason to grin had been taken away from him. “These career tributes are all about brute strength. Look at all the skills they’re ignoring, and study those,” he suggested before narrowing his eyes and glancing at their competition nearby, “They’re so sure that they’ll kill everyone on the first day that they haven’t even thought about surviving until the second.”

Yuuri wasn’t sure as to how he’d come up with those words, but it felt nice to say them nonetheless. It gave him the slightest sense of hope, and he gained some satisfaction in down talking the tributes from more favourable districts. Viktor could have benefited quite a bit from him, thought Yuuri, but it was his loss now. Viktor was much more high-profile, a prized target, while Yuuri could hide under the radar so long as he could keep himself warm and well-fed.

“Thank you,” Minami spoke softly, “You’re the nicest people I’ve met here, without a doubt.” He looked awkwardly towards his feet, as if he’d been caught saying something taboo. In a way, it was. Nobody here was supposed to be ‘nice’.

“You’re welcome.”

Unfortunately, Yuuri didn’t imagine that many around them would consider being kind. Sure, now was a good time to form alliances and observe the competition, but being too caring could lead to weaknesses being discovered, tiny slips of the tongue being enough to prove fatal in the arena. They all knew now that Yuuri was thoughtful, that he would stop what he was doing to help someone in need. Everyone who saw him rush to Minami’s aid knew that he was too selfless for his own good, that he would check on his allies before taking care of himself. So long as he was falsely made to believe that his help was needed, he could be lead straight into an ambush. He’d shown a weakness.

So he let Minami be. Yuuri dismissed him with a wave and a thin smile and left him to carry on with his day. It would have been a detriment to Minami if the others thought that he was too dependent on others. As he finished that thought, Yuuri realised that he’d shown weakness again. He should have made the younger boy look and feel as incompetent as possible when instead, he’d given him strength. 

It was something he’d dwelled upon, even on the third day.

The twenty-four tributes were summoned to a large dining hall where they would be retrieved for individual assessment. At first, everybody was rather quiet, the tension in the air tangible and the pressure to appear docile at an all-time high. In the room were three equidistant tables of eight, all set with Capitol delicacies and cool fresh water. It was easy to tell as to who were the nervous eaters, who was simply full of restless energy, and who needed to zone out completely to reach a calm state of mind. There was so much ego yet also so much anxiety crammed into the space, and the nervous sweat seeped from each tribute’s pores caused the room to grow hot rather quickly. 

Much to Yuuri’s disappointment, Viktor was the first person to leave it, and he did not return. As much as he was still nervous about talking to him after being ignored the previous day, he would have liked to have asked him how he fared in his evaluation. It wasn’t that he wanted to know exactly what Viktor had done to undoubtedly wow the gamemakers, but he wanted to form an idea of the situation in his mind, so that he could prepare himself for what was to come, and he could quell his bubbling nerves. Also, he wanted to wish him well. Yuuri knew that he was going to die in the coming days, but Viktor had a good chance of surviving. If he met his end right at the Games’ beginning, he wanted to go with Viktor knowing that he’d made a positive impact on his experience. With the exception of Phichit and his mentors, there was nobody else to whom he could truthfully say that. In fact, there were more people who fit the opposite description.

“ _Katsuki._ ”

He wasn’t sure as to when Yuri Plisetsky had appeared before him exactly, but given his reputation as one of the sneakier and more agile tributes, he wasn’t surprised to see him. The last time he’d caught Yuuri’s attention, the teen blond was sitting at the table furthest from him, steadily tapping the benchtop with his fingers and looking towards the floor like he’d disappeared into his mind. That was when Mila had been called for assessment, and he’d likely found himself with no means of entertainment. 

Yuuri looked up to meet his gaze. He didn’t want any trouble. “Yes?”

Still, it seemed that even a remark as innocent as that was enough to touch a nerve with Yuri. Yuuri watched on fearfully as the smaller boy gritted his teeth in disgust, his fists clench and his nostrils flare. It appeared that he’d spent the last three days desperately trying to hold back from sucker-punching another tribute. The ‘no sparring’ rule really was a blessing in disguise. The look on Yuri’s face suggested that he was restless beyond belief, that he was itching to be called for assessment so he could let out every ounce of negative energy he had on a defenceless combat dummy.

“God, you annoy me so much,” he spat, his emerald eyes piercing in a way that made Yuuri’s stomach feel uneasy. The District Twelve tribute knew that if he didn’t have a target on his head already, there most certainly was one now; large and with a bullseye placed right between his eyes, a sign beneath reading ‘kill reserved for Yuri Plisetsky’.

He didn’t know what he’d done to be such a nuisance. Then again, Yuuri supposed that even being present could serve as a catalyst for all kinds of emotion. Looking around the realising that yes, he was training the for the Hunger Games, that death was imminent and his eventual killer was in the room with him made him feel more anxious and withdrawn than anything else. At this stage, he was trying to refrain from curling into a ball and sobbing until he was back in his bedroom. He wasn’t sure as to how long he’d keep up his facade of being unbothered, especially as Yuri kept staring him down and waiting to gauge a reaction. Thankfully with Mila gone to assessment, it meant that Yuri would be next. So long as he held out for a few more minutes of antagonising, he would be okay. He would be able to breathe again soon, and then he’d just avoid him for as long as he could after that. 

“ _Three days_ ,” groaned the blond, “I’ve had to hear ‘Yuuri’s shit’, ‘Yuuri’s nothing without his allies’, ‘Yuuri’s gonna get a low combat score’, and I know they’re talking about you, but it’s still … fucking …. _Ugh!_ ” He looked away and let out a heavy sigh. “I can’t wait to stick a knife in your neck just so everyone will shut the fuck up! The only Yuri worth talking about in these games is me! You are _nothing!_ A dead man walking!” 

“I…”

Yuuri didn’t know what to say. While his conscience told him that this was all just song and dance, that it was all a deliberate ploy to crush his spirits and evoke self-doubt, part of him couldn’t help but take it to heart. Was this really how the other tributes viewed him? He didn’t even know if he could consider Viktor an ally anymore. Surely that made him look like even more of a pushover. It was upsetting of course, but he supposed there had to be something positive to come from it. If he was less desirable to kill, then perhaps the others would be less inclined to hunt for him.

Yuri Plisetsky was called to assessment and mimicked the motion of a knife cutting his throat with one finger, his gaze locked on Yuuri.

“If you’re lucky, I’ll do it quickly.”

It seemed that at least one tribute was still out to get him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to ask any HG AU meta at curiouscat.me/yuripirozkhi and check out my twitter @babyanidala (which could also change to @yuripirozkhi in the near future but we'll see)  
> Thanks for reading xo


	8. The Last Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tributes' combat scores are revealed, and they're each interviewed live before the Capitol. It's Yuuri's last chance to secure sponsors, and still unsure of what Viktor really thinks of him, he's feeling more pressured than ever.

The combat scores were televised rather quickly. Squeezed in after the end of pre-games training and before the live interviews, the citizens of the Capitol were graced with more information on their supposedly beloved tributes. A mixture of private investigators, anthropologists and training centre staff were more than prepared to divulge facts on what kind of clothes the tributes wore as they set foot into the city, what kinds of foods they enjoyed and disliked, as well as some of their habits both in and out of the specialised training rooms. Of course, such information was kept secret from the tributes themselves, for learning too much about each other could have an impact on their strategies. Facts as potentially vital as these were reserved only for the spectators, to help them choose someone on whom they could bet.

In the Training Centre tower, only part of the broadcast was shown. Screens of mammoth size descended from the ceilings of each tribute suite and upon it played some of the program that was showed to the public. Caesar Flickerman debuted his new hairstyle and iris shade, no doubt pleasantly shocking almost all of Panem as he appeared, and prepared the country for this year’s tribute combat scores. The gleeful expression he bore made it seem like he was announcing lottery numbers, not giving rise to the fates of twenty-four doomed and rather frightened young people. Scores closer to the maximum of twelve meant that they were the most deadly and skilled in offensive manoeuvers. Those who weren’t as fortunate and scored something much lower were usually the ones who were killed quickly.

Yuuri knew that he wasn’t among the best. He was no match for the likes of Viktor Nikiforov and Chris Giacometti. He wasn’t as agile as Yuri Plisetsky or as cunning and stealthy as Seung-Gil Lee. But, he reminded himself, he had other skills; resourcefulness being his most notable. It just so happened that the aim of the assessment was to test lethality and not much else.

“How do you think you went?” Celestino asked from a seat nearby. He occupied a large off-white armchair while Phichit, Minako and Yuuri sat closely together on a luxurious and spacious lounge suite. 

“I don’t-” Yuuri paused to sigh. “I don’t know.”

“Well you didn’t cry like you did on the train, so my guess is it wasn’t _that_ bad.”

“I guess so,” he conceded, his gaze settling at his knees. He murmured a quick ‘thank you’ after a cold glass of water was set in front of him. Britta had insisted that it would help to quell his nerves, and she was right. She was really going above and beyond considering her role as a stylist, and the fact that she’d only known, and would know, Yuuri for a matter of days.

“Yuuri told me about what he did,” piped up Phichit, doing extremely well at hiding any anxiety he had, “He outlined the uses of a whole bunch of plants _and_ he put together a snare big enough for a person!” Yuuri could feel a reassuring touch on his shoulder as his best friend continued. “You’ll do alright. I’d sponsor you.”

“You’re just saying that because you’re my friend.”

“No I’m not!”

“Shh,” Phichit put a stop to their banter, “it’s starting.”

In a matter of seconds, the room became completely silent, with only the exception of Caesar Flickerman’s renowned words echoing from the speakers on the walls. The host was wearing a tailored suit in a deep maroon and sat behind a gleaming mahogany benchtop. Even despite his strangely cheerful disposition, the atmosphere of the broadcast was sombre overall, or at least that was Yuuri’s interpretation. He imagined that for the many privileged citizens of the Capitol, it would be a time of much excitement indeed. Feeling quite the opposite, Yuuri noticed that his palms were beginning to grow clammy and that he was sinking back into the cushioning of the lounge. How he wanted to dissolve completely into it and pretend that the monstrosity that was the Hunger Games never existed.

“From District One,” announced Caesar, “Viktor Nikiforov,”

Yuuri felt a pain in his chest as he caught sight of Viktor’s on-screen likeness. He never did find an opportunity to speak to him after their first day of training. He yearned to know if they were still allies. He wanted to know what Chris Giacometti had that he lacked, and if he could change to make himself better. He needed to make sure that Viktor hadn’t forgotten him. After all, he was almost all Yuuri had been thinking of for the last two days.

“... with a score of eleven! We’re starting off with a bang today, folks!”

Yuuri’s jaw dropped, but not in disbelief. He could have been allies with an eleven. He wasn’t able to process Georgi’s score for he kept repeating _that number_ in his mind. Eleven out of twelve. A perfect score was unheard of in the history of the Games, and that made Viktor one of the deadliest tributes Panem had ever seen.

“From District Two, Yuri Plisetsky, with a score of ten.”

“Phichit,” murmured Yuuri in distress, barely audible so that only he could hear, “I don’t think I can watch this.”

“Deep breaths,” replied Phichit just as quietly, “It’ll all be over soon.”

He didn’t know whether to think of it in the way that the broadcast was short, or that they’d all be dead in a matter of days. It would all be over soon. Still, he did as his best friend instructed, knowing that it would surely be helpful, and of course, it was. Breathing in slowly and deeply helped bring his heart rate to a more reasonable level. The nervous voice in his mind was focused on the steady elevation of his stomach as he inhaled and its fall as he exhaled, rather than every detail of what was happening on-screen.

In the moments that passed, he thought only about his breathing, paying little to no mind as to what was going on around him. He figured that Phichit would bring him up to speed a little later, and hoped that there was a way to review the scores again. He didn’t notice that Michele Crispino of Four scored a rather impressive nine, making his taunts seem that bit more frightening. District Five’s Emil was awarded a solid eight points. Yuuri felt more at ease upon hearing scores like seven and six, although the pessimism in him made him wonder if he’d score even less. After all, plant knowledge was one thing, but what was it really when compared to a crushing blow to the head? He would have to make alliances with other tributes and spike their food supplies with poisonous sap. That was what Celestino had suggested.

He had mixed feelings upon seeing Minami get a score of five. There was no denying that it was low, but Yuuri could only wonder if it would work to the younger boy’s advantage. To get such a low assessment score meant that the tribute was poorly skilled in battle, suggesting that one-on-one, they would lose to someone with a greater number of points. However, tributes with poorer scores were often the ones overlooked, considered ‘easy targets’ and left alone initially while the larger threats were ganged upon and eliminated. It was almost like he had told Minami; so long as he survived until the second day and took care of himself, that was a major hurdle overcome. The tributes for Districts Ten and Eleven were announced but Yuuri wasn’t overly present to consider them. His thoughts remained with Minami, and he truly hoped that he’d found an ally after he’d left him alone. Perhaps he shouldn’t have left him alone.

“From District Twelve,” Caesar’s voice pulled Yuuri back to reality as he was forced to confront his face.

He could feel Phichit wriggle closer to him on the couch and reach for his hand, his slender fingers bunching his own together and tightly curling around Yuuri’s knuckles until they ached. He was warm, but his skin was clammy. Even though he was keeping quiet, it seemed that he and Phichit were just as nervous as each other. Yuuri was almost certain though that his best friend would be pleasantly surprised with his score. In the days that passed, he had seen his skills improve dramatically from what they were, to the point where he honestly thought that he’d have a fighting chance in the games.

“Phichit Chulanont, with a score of eight.”

Minako’s face lit up with delight, her thin lips blooming into a surprisingly genuine smile. She daintily clapped her hands then leant towards Phichit, her arms outstretched. Even Celestino looked somewhat pleased. 

So he should have, thought Yuuri. It was a decent score. Lots of people managed to win with eights. He looked at his best friend beside him, who gave a sigh of relief. His entire body had relaxed substantially. He had done better than he thought he would.

“From District Twelve, Yuuri Katsuki,”

Another squeeze to his hand.

“... with a score of six.”

Deflated was not a strong enough word to describe how he felt. He was taken over by a mixture of nausea and mild physical pain, like his heart was crying for help and sinking deep into his gut. Sure, Yuuri was a lot more gentle when it came to interpreting other low scores like Minami’s, but as far as he was concerned, this was a different situation. This was _his_ life on the line; his abilities and strengths summarised by a single number, all so Capitol citizens could decide if he was worth sponsoring. The other tributes would see him as lacking in ferocity or stealth, and among the easier tributes to kill. This was not good, Yuuri repeated to himself in his head. This was not good at all.

There was no formal conclusion to the broadcast, or at least it wasn’t shown to the tributes. The last word that Yuuri heard from Caesar was the foreboding ‘six’, which repeated time and time again in his subconscious. He wasn’t given the same reactions that Phichit had received, instead being met with forced tight-lipped smiles and subtle nods. His chances of victory were slim, and it was absolutely no secret. Phichit was acting just as he expected, the worry visible in his eyes without him needing to say a word. He must have expected that they would perform the same. Given the kinds of things they did back home when hunting, Yuuri had a similar prediction in mind. 

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Phichit told him quietly, seemingly hoping to bring up his spirits.

“That’s easy for you to say,” he found himself snapping back, regretting using such a tone shortly after he’d finished. When there were tributes who scored tens and elevens in their midst, it was perhaps something Phichit needed to tell himself for his own reassurance. Yuuri had let his mind drift at times to think that he and his best friend had a chance of survival if they set good enough traps and kept out of the stronger tributes’ ways for long enough, but how realistic was that vision? 

Preferring not to think about it, Yuuri retreated to his room without giving much input to any conversation. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with Celestino’s combat stories, or the screeches Minako gave when things fell out of order. Even Phichit’s seemingly genuine concerns were not in his interest. He wanted nothing more than to fall face first onto his bed and spare a few minutes to wallow in self-pity. Live interviews with Caesar were that evening, and it wouldn’t be long before Britta stole him from his sanctuary and dressed him up for the cameras.

Such a time came far too quickly, and Yuuri eventually found himself in the green room of a spectacularly large auditorium. Once again, like during individual assessment, tensions were high and the humidity in the room was rising, albeit there being more space. Everywhere he looked, Yuuri could see a fellow tribute or a member of their styling team, the latter of course typically being recognised by their pastel-tinged skin and their exaggerated hairstyles. Many of the tributes were being fussed over almost consistently, with either a hair out of place, or an acne scar that needed covering among other things that made their stylists uneasy. Thankfully, thought Yuuri, his stylist Britta was more than happy with her latest creative endeavour. 

“Don’t be nervous,” Britta assured him before placing one hand on his shoulder, “You look excellent. But, I do know that beautiful smile of yours will really make the outfit.”

The smile he returned to her wasn’t exactly genuine. It was hard for him to bare his teeth in any expression that suggested happiness. Yuuri was adamant that his days of experiencing any joy were behind him. That was determined when his name was reaped for the Hunger Games. 

“Thank you,” he offered meekly, knowing that the live interviews were set to begin quite soon indeed. His time with his stylist was limited. After now, the only time he’d have left to talk with her would be the following morning, when he’d be plucked from his suite and sent to the arena. She would be the last person to speak with him before he and the other tributes are left to fend for themselves.

“And try not to stress about the interview, okay?” asked Britta sweetly. “Just be yourself and I’m sure everyone in the audience will come to adore you, just like I have.”

Yuuri wasn’t sure if she wiped away a tear because she was proud of him, overly happy with the outfit she’d put together, or upset because she knew he was going to die. He gave her a hug before departing to the green room doors, Phichit following closely behind him. 

Of the twenty-four tributes that Caesar Flickerman would interview, Yuuri was the last. They were organised into a single line by Capitol staff by order of district, meaning that he was at the very back. He’d manage to get a glimpse of Viktor Nikiforov at the front of the line, but he was unable to communicate with him, and he still yearned to know the situation regarding their alliance. At the very least, he would have liked to compliment him on his suit. The deep purple of his jacket brought out the cooler tones of his silver hair. His pale grey vest gave the slightest shimmer underneath the green room’s fluorescent lights. Yuuri had never seen anyone so dashing, although he imagined that Britta would beg to differ. Yuuri’s suit jacket was an iridescent powder blue with white trim, complete with a cobalt rose that sat in a pocket by his chest. His vest was similar to Viktor’s in hue, and the black trousers that hugged his legs were the most comfortable pair he’d ever worn. 

The tributes were escorted out of the green room and through a long hallway. Large portraits with heavy-looking golden frames adorned the walls. Yuuri peered at a couple of them with intrigue as he followed the others, but only realised their pattern after he’d seen quite a few. Underneath each image was a gleaming gold plaque, on which the subject’s name and district were inscribed. These were commemorative portraits of Hunger Games victors, from the very first winner until present day. Seeing the first victor of District Twelve, one of Celestino’s mentors, made Yuuri feel slightly calmer. It reminded him that survival was possible, no matter the home of a tribute. Poverty wasn’t the be all and end all, although it remained a disadvantage. 

He raised an eyebrow as he spotted another face, one that he knew he hadn’t seen before but seemed familiar all the same. The young man wouldn’t have been past his late teens, and he had sandy blonde hair that fell into emerald eyes. _Winner of the 48th Annual Hunger Games: Nikolai Plisetsky - District Two._ Did more than just self-defence training run in that family? Yuuri wasn’t sure, and he certainly wasn’t going to ask.

He hadn’t seen many pictures of Celestino when he was younger, but Yuuri only needed to glance at his portrait once. His mentor wore his hair in a thick ponytail even at twenty-three, and the only major differences in his face were in his skin, the lack of stress-induced wrinkles making look even more youthful. Celestino had a lot more wisdom in his eyes now, and permanent bags under them suggesting that peaceful sleep was a thing of the past.

The victors became more recognisable as they moved closer to the main stage door. The portraits were all of the victors who fought in games during Yuuri’s lifetime. For the most part, they were career tributes, and it was a trend that had made itself apparent at least a generation ago. There were some, however, who stood out in their differences. Isabella Yang was the winner of the games four years prior, and hailed from District Three. Undeniably beautiful, her features were clean and sharp, and her steely blue eyes were almost invasive in their intense stare. Yuuri couldn’t look at her for too long. The final portrait belonged to Cao Bin of District Seven, the surprise victor of last year’s games. All Yuuri cold think of when he saw it was the eerily empty spot adjacent. Someone from the current group of tributes would have their image immortalised there. If he was able to bet on a winner, he would have chosen Viktor.

A thick, velvet curtain separated the tributes from the audience as they assembled on stage. Two white couches were placed at the front and centre, with only a small coffee table between them. One would be permanently occupied by Caesar, and other would be visited by each of the tributes from Districts One to Twelve. During the time they weren’t being interviewed, the tributes would be sat at the back of the stage, veiled in darkness so as to keep the audience’s attention fixed. How Yuuri loathed the thought of being interviewed last. He was anxious to hear the other tributes’ spiel about how intelligent, cunning and charming they were. The more Yuuri thought about it, the more he convinced himself that he was going to be made a fool. He didn’t even know what kind of things he’d be asked.

The curtains raised and Yuuri saw an audience bigger than District Twelve in its entirety. The Gamemakers occupied a high balcony to his right, and television crews made themselves visible everywhere he looked. Countless cameras were at the ready to record every moment and stream it to the masses. Nobody in Panem would dare to miss such a spectacle as this. The tributes’ stylists took the front row, presumably so that they could be easily credited when their handiwork was admired, but Yuuri was just happy to see Britta’s face. He made a mental note to look to her if he ever had trouble in his interview.

Caesar Flickerman began the event with some formalities and comedic stylings of his own, getting the audience excited and prepared for what was to come. His navy suit sparkled under the stage lights, and his newly crafted teal bouffant stood out against the neutral hues of the furniture around him. He was among the most adored in the Capitol, and he knew it without a doubt. 

The first person he called to the front was Viktor Nikiforov. 

Viktor approached the mainstage as if he was gliding on air, a thin string pulling his head up straight and an invisible force holding his shoulders back in the perfect posture. There appeared to be not a single ounce of anxiety plaguing him as he took the chair next to Caesar. In fact, it looked as if he belonged there, like part of the Capitol with his perfect smile, the irresistible charm he radiated, and the fact that he had not a hair out of place. Caesar had even hinted at it during the interview, subtly suggesting that Viktor stay with him and be adored by the Capitol forever.

“But seriously, if you do end up winning-” suggested the host.

“You mean _when_ I do,” Viktor corrected.

“Of course, _when_ you do, give me a call.”

“Gladly.”

Yuuri looked into his lap in despair. How ever was he going to match such a level of charisma? As much as he was happy for Viktor in his success, he couldn’t help but wince at each time the audience collectively reacted to his words, either with an enthusiastic cheer or a roaring fit of laughter. The most recent wave of giggles came when Viktor admitted to being single, a phrase that caused Yuuri’s ears to prick upwards. He tried to convince himself that his reaction was simply curious interest, to help him with his own interview. He wasn’t thinking that he actually stood a chance with Viktor, he told himself. Their time was extremely limited, anyway, together or not. Still, he wondered if it would hurt to imagine an alternate reality where he could spend more time with him, where he could show Viktor the rolling fields of Twelve and hold his hand as he led him through the hills and valleys. He wondered what it would be like for them to lay in the grass together and look at the sky, pointing out shapes in the clouds and talking about their hopes and dreams.

“Alright, there is _someone_ ,” admitted Viktor after being egged on substantially.

Yuuri’s heart sank. He made a conscious effort not to listen after that.

He tried to put Viktor’s interview at the back of his mind as his focus shifted from his lap to the other tributes gracing the stage. Yuri Plisetsky looked incredibly aloof whilst being interviewed, able to draw intrigue from spectators who thought him a mixture of darling and mysterious. Jean-Jacques Leroy made an outlandish comment that he would marry his mentor, Isabella Yang, once he came home victorious. Of course, Yuuri wasn’t sure if it was true, but he imagined that it would be something the gossip-hungry Capitol spectators couldn’t resist. Otabek Altin of District Eight kept mostly to himself, answering a lot of questions with one-worded answers, and not detailing much on his personal life. Still, with a combat score of nine, Yuuri imagined that many would be considering him to sponsor, regardless. Although he wasn’t a career tribute, Otabek was definitely a dark horse in the competition. Yuuko Nishigori of Nine carried and expressed herself in a way that made her feel like everyone’s lifelong friend. She announced that she would be fighting for her husband and children, a thought that made Yuuri feel physically sick. It was a concept he hadn’t considered until it was brought up explicitly. He’d thought about parents being left without children as a result of the games, but never the other way around.

His attention piqued once more as Phichit was called for his interview. 

Phichit had the same expression as a child who’d won a prize, and he eagerly approached the couch and greeted Caesar with a smile. He fell into the soft white couch, almost exactly the same shade as his suit jacket. On the bright side however, it enabled for Phichit’s face to stand out. Leaning towards the host with interest, Phichit and Caesar had quite the entertaining conversation, where they discussed the talents of the styling teams, and how being fussed over by them made him feel worth a million tesserae. 

There was one question that Yuuri was desperately hoping that Caesar would ask, and when he did, he immediately starting picking at his fingernails, his teeth clenched in anticipation. He’d tried to get a clear answer from Phichit over the last couple of days, but to no avail.

“Now, I hear you caused quite the stir in District Twelve, Phichit,” began the host with a smirk.

“I … I… what?” Phichit furrowed his brow in confusion.

“It’s not every year we see a volunteer from District Twelve.”

The tribute nodded and relaxed more into his chair. He understood where the conversation was going.

“So, young man, tell me. What was going through your mind when you so bravely put yourself forward?”

There was a pause. Yuuri was at the edge of his seat as he waited for Pichit to answer. He hoped desperately that his best friend would give a truthful answer, and that he wouldn’t fabricate something dramatic to impress the audience. He wanted to know why Phichit had chosen such a horrible fate for himself, when he could have guaranteed himself safety for another year, and stayed with his family and the people who cared about him.

“Yuuri and I, we promised when we were kids that we’d be best friends forever, through everything,” he answered, after which a soft chuckle escaped his lips. “I don’t know about everyone else, but when I make a promise, I mean it, and I just …” he took a deep breath and looked towards his feet, his white business shoes tapping against a leg of the coffee table, “There’s no way I’d leave him alone to do something like this. I know he’d do the same for me”

Yuuri found himself with his face in his hands, tears beginning to pool at the corners of his eyes. He didn’t know whether to be overwhelmed with joy or fury. How dare Phichit throw his life away for him? How dare he do such a thing without discussing it with him first? If something disastrous happened to him, whether it took place before or after his own demise, Yuuri would ultimately blame himself. He wanted to say something to him, to make his feelings known while the conversation was still, but the opportunity never presented itself. He was called for and rushed to the couch before he could even process that Phichit’s interview was over.

The stage lights felt hot on his skin, and he could see tiny beads of sweat littered on Caesar’s brow. The host’s makeup looked a lot more exaggerated up close, but Yuuri supposed that it would be perfect for television, if not just perfect for Capitol beauty standards. He felt like he was trapped on a small and deserted island, only everyone else knew that he was there, but refused to rescue him. It was daunting to know that so many cameras had their lenses fixed on him, and that the moments to come would be replayed for the Capitol citizens’ enjoyment, even after he’d been killed. Shaking his head, Yuuri adjusted his thoughts and focused back on Caesar, his exuberant grin and the surprisingly friendly look in his eyes. He would have had to see many nervous tributes in his time.

“I’m a firm believer in saving the best for last, Yuuri.”

His eyes widened. He didn’t really want this kind of pressure.

Overall, he was pleasantly surprised with how kind Caesar was being to him. As the interview progressed, he hadn’t asked any questions that were too invasive, instead asking questions about his hobbies, and complimenting him on the way he was dressed. That wasn’t his doing at all, he was quick to mention, but that of his lovely stylist in the front row. The cameras panned to Britta, who smiled, waved and blew kisses to the crowd. Yuuri took a breath of relief in that for a second, the focus was moved from him.

“If you could name one thing,” asked Caesar, “What has to be your favourite thing about coming to the Capitol?”

The answer came without even a moment’s thought.

“Meeting Viktor.” It pushed through his lips in the form of a mumble.

“What was that?”

“Uh…” Yuuri murmured as he tried to think of the right words. His eyes wandered to Britta, who appeared to mouth the words ‘say anything’. It seemed like a good enough strategy, he thought, for the longer he remained frozen and hesitated, the weaker he appeared in the eyes of those watching him. 

“Eating chicken,” he managed to answer more clearly, deciding it sounded enough like his original word choice. “We don’t often get to eat chicken back home; maybe dove on a really good day.” His gaze alternated between Caesar and the audience, who seemed to be in a shocked silence by the mere thought of catching and eating wild birds. “The best thing I’ve had here was the pork cutlet bowl from our first night. It’s my new favourite food.” The crowd laughed. Crisis averted.

“Well, young man, win the Games and I can promise that you’ll have all the pork cutlet bowls you could ever ask for,” the host continued, clearly showing that in his many years in the entertainment industry, he could save any conversation and make any faux pas go unnoticed. “It’s been a delight talking you to you this evening. Everybody let’s hear it for Yuuri Katsuki, from District Twelve!”

The crowd erupted in applause and Caesar Flickerman, donning his midnight blue suit, bid farewell to his legions of adoring fans and ended the ceremony. Yuuri was ushered to his seat at the back of the stage and listened to the charismatic host give his final remarks before the velvet curtain dropped once more. Capitol representatives gathered the tributes to an exit at stage right, and they were faced with the reality that the Hunger Games would begin the next day. There were no further opportunities for the tributes to attract sponsors or to sell themselves to the rich Capitol folk. The commute to the Training Centre accommodation was a silent one.

He didn’t know how he managed to hold in his emotions, but they were certainly brimming at the surface when Yuuri returned to the District Twelve suite. His bottom lip was trembling incessantly, and the beginnings of tears had begun to pool at his eyes. His nose was running and his knees grew weak. It had dawned on him that he had one night left before the Games. There was a very high chance that this would be the last time he’d ever see the night sky, and he’d only have one more chance to sleep in a warm bed, to forget his troubles and immerse himself in a dream. The remainder of his life could be counted in hours, and he knew that given the choice, he wouldn’t have wanted to spend his last moments of relative freedom hugging a pillow and sobbing profusely. Still, he felt it was all he could do, especially since his body had decided to betray him at a time when he needed to look strong. Nausea plagued his stomach and his lower half felt like it had been sculpted from jelly. His pulse raced, his heart hammered furiously at his ribs, and it became more and more difficult to breathe. Tears rolled down his cheeks and formed droplets at his chin. 

He didn’t want to die. Why did he have to die?

A knock on the door startled him, and Yuuri’s body stiffened. He hoped Celestino hadn’t heard him cry, but he heaved deeply to breathe, and the walls were only so thin. He wondered as to what kind of words would be thrown at him. _This wasn’t how a winner acted. This behaviour would get him nowhere in combat._ Yuuri didn’t care. Tonight was his last night without cameras following his every step.

A knock on his bedroom door pulled him from his thoughts.

“Yuuri, it’s me.”

_Phichit._

“Yuuri, can I come in?” 

He often found himself questioning what he’d done to deserve such an incredible best friend, and it was something he’d wondered more in the days gone by. Yuuri couldn’t recall a single moment when Phichit had not supported him. He’d helped to take care of his family, kept him company without question, and seemingly went out of his way to keep his spirits high. He would never have asked Phichit to make the ultimate sacrifice like he did. After all, there really was no good that would come from it. Even if through some sheer luck, Yuuri was victorious in the Hunger Games, the most important person to him would be gone. It was an awful thing to think about, and it only made him feel more ill. 

Yuuri didn’t have to ask for him to stay. Wordlessly, Phichit lifted the heavy covers of the bed and gestured for him to crawl inside, so that he could follow suit. He relished in the sensation of being warm, of feeling the slightest bit safe, even though he new it was a false security. Yuuri let his eyes close and he imagined the warm and open valleys of Twelve, where he and Phichit would spend day after day wandering through mazes of trees and shrubbery, looking for food while asking the big questions about life, love and the world around them. He thought of the great feasts he would have with his family on special occasions; the roasted dove, bread rolls, and fruit if they were lucky. His lips twisted upwards into a thin smile as he recalled the hearty laughter of his father in a good mood, and pictured the rosy hue of his mother’s cheeks when she reflected on the love she’d had for over thirty years. Hugging the quilt closer, he imagined his sister and remembered just how good she was at holding him when he was sick or scared. If he had one night left to dream, he would dream of them.

He awoke to a gentle tap on the shoulder, and sunlight gently streaming across his face. Phichit was gone.

“Yuuri, sweetie,” cooed Britta with a smile on her face, but a fearful look in her eyes. “It’s time to go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! xo


	9. 'Til Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After three gruelling days of assessment at the Capitol Training Centre, the twenty-four tributes are launched into a mysterious arena, and sent to fight to the death.   
> Let the Hunger Games begin!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally the games are starting! :D It's been literal months and IncognitoButterfly and I have been so excited to share this chapter!  
> The rating has been bumped up due to the fact that things are starting to get violent, so reader discretion is advised.  
> Enjoy! :)

No room had given Yuuri a more sickly feeling than the one he’d just entered. It was like the ones he’d seen on television, in the Games that preceded his own, but there were some minor differences. Still, like those in the years gone by, every surface appeared sleek, new and untouched, for it was. The launch room in which he stood would be used by him and him alone, then destroyed and left in ruins, much like he supposed his body would be in time. The preferred term for this room at home was the Stockyard; the place where animals were sent to slaughter, and Yuuri thought it was appropriate. He could see the vessel in which he’d be transported before him; it was a tall, transparent cylinder, narrow enough so that he wouldn’t be able to extend his arms. Simply looking at it was enough to make him feel claustrophobic, even though he knew that he wouldn’t be standing in there for long. He was already frightened, tired and sore, but he knew that he need not be worried about the tube itself. It was the sight that came afterwards that had him terrified. The only thing that separated him from the arena, almost certain to be his place of death, was a clear plastic tunnel with a retracting valve at its top.

“How long now?” he asked Britta, who remained stoically by his side.

“I don’t know,” she answered, something in her tone suggesting that she hated being unsure.

Yuuri sighed and gingerly rubbed his left forearm, still tender to touch after a GPS tracker had been placed beneath his skin. Knowing that his every moment could be traced made him feel more like an animal, like a disposable plaything, than ever before. As much as he tried to pretend that the tracker wasn’t there, he could feel it twitch with each movement of his fingers, giving him an irritating itch that he knew he couldn’t scratch. He hoped that the feeling would subside shortly, although he supposed that other problems would take precedence very soon. It would only be minutes until an itch would become the least of his worries. Again still, he could be dead within the hour.

He wondered if Britta could sense his bubbling anxiety, for her arm seemed to reach around his shoulders at just the right time. The brief reminder that he wasn’t alone yet proved helpful. He could breathe without trembling for a little while longer.

Until they received word from the Gamemakers, there was nothing to do but wait. Britta had dressed him in his arena clothing, a slate grey t-shirt that fit comfortably, and dark cargo pants lined with numerous pockets. The bottom of his trousers tucked into black combat boots, which were laced up tightly with double knots. The only article that veered from the grey colour scheme was his raincoat. Made of a light but durable fabric, the navy coat bore a hood and ended at his knees. White embellishments were at the sides of his waist, on them an arrow design. Yuuri wondered as to why such accents were present, but figured that if the tributes were camouflaged too well, there’d be nobody finding and killing anyone. Looking at his midsection with disdain, he came to realise that the fleshy parts of his torso were being emphasised, like targets for his fellow tributes to take aim.

“Do you want to talk?” Britta spoke softly. “Or maybe have something to eat?”

If Yuuri wasn’t already struggling to control his voice, he would have laughed out loud. However, he remained quiet, instead gently shaking his head. He worried that if he attempted to talk too much, his nerves would get the better of him and he’d collapse into a mess of tears and dry-heaving. He was certain that if he ate anything of substance, it would reappear before him in minutes, making the effort of trying rather futile. As a compromise, for Britta seemed persistent in her attempt to make him eat, he settled for a glass of water and took small sips to relieve his dry mouth. He also knew that he would die more quickly from dehydration than from lack of food. 

The two of them walked to a couch adjacent to the launching vessel and sat in silence, knowing that it couldn’t be long until they had to bid each other farewell. Yuuri started nibbling on the rim of his glass after he’d emptied it. Eventually, he let it sit on the low coffee table in front of them, sensing that the chattering noise of his teeth against the glass was getting on Britta’s nerves. He turned to her warily, ready to apologise, but was instead met with an expression far from frustrated. The stylist’s deep brown eyes were wide and brimming with tears, her lips pressed together in a thin smile and her hands clasped together tightly, her knuckles white. Yuuri thought she looked ready to collapse into him, and he wouldn’t have minded if she did. If she could take hold of him and carry him away from the Games and the abysmal future that he was about to face, he would happily let her.

“No matter what happens out there, I’m gonna be proud of you, Yuuri,” she told him sincerely, a slight waver in her voice.

“Don’t be,” he retorted in disgust. “I won’t last five minutes.”

Yuuri felt one of her hands take his, and was surprised by just how clammy and warm her hands were, not unlike his own.

“Remember what we talked about?” Britta asked a rhetorical question. “You’re going to run, get water and find Phichit. Then you can make some of those famous snares of yours and trap the others, and let exposure take care of them. Not a bad strategy.” She paused. “Deep breaths, darling.”

“Okay,” he murmured before closing his eyes. _Deep breaths._ He counted the number of times his chest rose and fell, trying to pace himself as he did. He only managed to count to eight before a crisp female voice projected into the room. It was time for Yuuri to be launched, and time to say goodbye.

He didn’t know how his feet were carrying him to the launching vessel, for he felt like his entire body was operating on auto-pilot. More than ever, he desperately hoped that after blinking enough, he would be pulled from this reality and find that he was only having a vivid nightmare. He didn’t care if he would wake up in his poverty-stricken village, with no certainty about where to get food or water, but it would better than the Games. He would trade everything the Capitol had given him - his fancy clothes, his gourmet meals, his spacious suite and his warm, soft bed - for another evening in his hometown and the chance to hug his parents again.

The room was so silent that he could only hear the sounds of his boots on the floor, and the hammering of his pulse in his ears. As the beginning of the Games drew eerily closer, Yuuri knew that he was experiencing an adrenaline rush. It was unlike the kind that he experienced playing tag as a kid, or taking a chance on a risky shot while out hunting, but more in the primal context of his ancestors. He was about to enter a battle to the death, and his body was preparing him to fight with all of his strength, or run like the wind until he physically couldn’t continue. He looked out to Britta, pleading with his eyes to be set free although he knew it impossible. She looked just as aware, for it looked like she was doing everything she could to not rescue him. 

“You know what to do,” she assured him.

“Britta, I’m _scared,_ ” was all he could whisper in response.

She took his hand in her own and sighed. “I have every faith in you, and I’m going to do all that I can to help you.” She let go of his hand. “Deep breaths.”

He watched his stylist’s hand fall to her side and the sliding door of the launch vessel closed and locked in front of him. The sound of it clicking in place caused for him to seek out Britta’s eyes, and he stared at them with a panicked desperation. He suddenly felt like all of the air around him had been sucked into a vacuum, his lungs devoid of oxygen. He tried to throw his fists at the thick plastic that surrounded him, but his efforts were futile. Yuuri wanted nothing more than to curl into a ball and cry. He was going to be dead within minutes.

“I’ll have a pork cutlet bowl ready for when you get back, okay?” offered Britta.

He nodded his head, the look on his face still showing his fear, and the launch vessel activated. The platform at his feet slowly pushed him upwards, and he yearned for something on which to take hold, for he was conscious of slipping and falling. He’d be even more of a laughing stock before the start of the Games, thought Yuuri. The tributes already thought him to be weak, unskilled and an easy target, and all of Panem had already seen him cry. He didn’t need for them to see him stumble and fall straight into the landmine by his starting podium. It would go down in history as one of the most pathetic deaths for sure, and his family would have to deal with that disgrace for the rest of their lives.

The vessel carried him upwards through what felt like thirty feet of rubble. During that time, he couldn’t see a thing, and he was almost relieved to see that he was moving towards natural light. Of course, being freed from the darkness and tight, restrictive space of the vessel meant being released into the arena, and that was something that Yuuri only realised once it had happened.

The first thing he noticed was the heat. The air was hot and humid, and it didn’t take long for sticky sweat to form at his brow. Next, it was the plant life. He had only seen so much greenery in the lush hunting grounds beneath the reach of his village. Everywhere Yuuri turned his head, he could see narrow trees that climbed to the sky, their branches heavy with rich emerald leaves. Directly in front of him, in the centre of the arena, stood the Cornucopia, named due to its distinguishable shape. Even from the tribute podiums, he could see some of the spoils at its entrance, undoubtedly enticing many youths to come forward and take part in the Games’ inevitable beginning bloodbath. He saw a shiny silver bow glimmering in the sunlight, a number of spears stacked against the Cornucopia’s outer wall, and numerous backpacks which surely contained vital survival gear. Hung at the structure’s entrance was a large screen, which was no surprise seeing as the event was televised all over Panem. The appearance of a large number ‘sixty’ in the screen coincides with the booming voice of famed Capitol personality and announcer, Claudius Templesmith.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let the ninety-first annual Hunger Games begin!”

Yuuri could imagine the eruption of applause from the unaffected Capitol spectators, and the anguished cries of those in the districts, but in the arena, there was silence. The number on the screen decreased from sixty ever so slowly, each second like an eternity. Initially, Yuuri counted his breaths, consciously making an effort to slow them, and then he began to look to his either side. Each of the twenty-three other tributes stood atop a pedestal, all of which were arranged in a semicircle facing the Cornucopia. He wondered as to who would sprint directly to the centre and who would be keen to escape far away as soon as possible. To his immediate left was a solidly built girl from District Seven, her name having escaped his mind. Next to her, however, was Jean-Jacques Leroy of Three, already stretching his arms above his head and twisting his back. Yuuri would have bet money that he was going straight to the Cornucopia.

The seconds passed and Yuuri felt that he’d gauged a good look at his fellow tributes, or at least as good as forty-five seconds would allow. He caught sight of Yuri Plisetsky letting out a deep breath and rubbing his eyes, his hair tied back so as to avoid it getting in his face. Mila Babicheva’s eyes were firmly on the Cornucopia, seemingly never wielding. Next to her was Yuuko Nishigori who, in comparison to the woman next to her, looked clumsy and unprepared. Still, Yuuri was certain that Mila was in a class of her own, easily the most formidable woman in the arena. He and Phichit met eyes from across the semicircle, and his best friend gave him a tiny smile. How Phichit could manage any sort of positive expression at a time like this, Yuuri would never know. Even Viktor, who in his mind was surely going to be the outright winner of these Games, looked incredibly serious. His silver brow was furrowed and he leaned towards the edge of the podium, ready to leap off of it as soon as the countdown goes to zero, which was only ten seconds away.

Yuuri wondered if his legs would be able to carry him off of the podium, or if his nerves would betray him and render his body frozen. Either way, he supposed, it wasn’t going to postpone his death, which could now be in mere seconds. He couldn’t help but wonder if he would be the first to die.

A gong sounded to mark the beginning of the Games, and Yuuri found himself running, his adrenaline rush coming to effect. As per the instructions he’d been given, he made sure not to advance too far towards the Cornucopia, but instead to take a bag - any bag- from the outer perimeter and get away as fast as possible. He managed to catch a glimpse of other tributes bolting towards the arena’s centre, only to also hear the sound of two consecutive cannons. Two tributes were already dead, their helpless bodies lying near the Cornucopia’s entrance and being trampled upon as the first battle continue to ensue.

The first to escape the crowd were Seung-Gil Lee and Chris Giacometti, both wielding blood-stained weapons. Seung-Gil even had smatterings of blood across his face. He was lucky to not be within close range of them, thought Yuuri.

He decided to stay relatively far away from the Cornucopia and managed to find a bag rather quickly. It was medium brown in colour, and although light in weight, it felt about half full. Rather than open it to see what was inside and if the spoils were worthwhile, Yuuri thought it best to run and wait until he was alone before doing so. When he crouched down to retrieve the bag, a third cannon sounded and he felt the urge to be physically sick. Already in so little time, three human lives had been ended, all for the entertainment of the Capitol, and it was disgusting. He rose to find Viktor Nikiforov sprinting in his direction, a bloodthirsty look in his eyes and a large, sharp sword in his right hand. Still unsure of their status as allies, Yuuri turned his back and ran, hoping that he could outrun the older tribute, even if he had neither height nor combat score in his favour. 

He almost tripped over when he heard the scream.

Yuuko Nishigori did not die quickly and painlessly. She first suffered the cruel blow of Viktor’s sword as it cut her torso from her left hip bone to her right shoulder. Rich red blood flew from her wound into the air, then dropped onto her face like crimson rain. She fell backwards and the back of her head hit the rough ground, but Viktor took no chances. Standing over her, he thrust the sword into her stomach, deep enough to almost pierce the skin in her back. Still, that wasn’t enough for Viktor, or so it seemed. With the tip of his sword, he split her face twice in two diagonal lines, meeting in a point at her cupid’s bow. The cuts formed a V, and did nothing to hasten the woman’s death, although it may have made her blind. It was a mixture of shock and blood loss that killed her, and the cannon signalling her death did not sound immediately. Yuuri didn’t know if he’d ever be able to rid the image of her from his mind. All he could think about was the fact that she had a husband and children, and they’d likely seen everything. Now, a young man had been widowed and three little girls were robbed of their mother, all in the name of entertainment.

As much as he was disgusted, Yuuri was afraid. He was frightened by Viktor’s capability to cut a human life short so quickly, seemingly without hesitation or difficulty. He caught glances of him in the corner of his eye and wondered fearfully if he would be the next to die. Had Viktor sweet-talked Yuuko into thinking they were allies as well? He knew it was a question of which he didn’t have the luxury of knowing the answer, and he wasn’t going to push his luck by asking. To do so would be too much of a risk. Even if Viktor’s intentions were genuine, running after him now would prove too dangerous. The District One tribute was, at this stage of the game, easily the biggest target with his high combat score. Following Viktor when there were teams of other tributes after him would only result in a very quick death.

So Yuuri continued to run.

He hadn’t stopped to check what was inside the bag he’d taken, instead figuring that to have anything in his possession was surely better than nothing. He hoped to have a carving knife, or at least something he could use to defend himself with, and some food to sustain him for a while. Water would have also served him well, although Yuuri aimed to find a continuous source before anything else. If anything, he figured a bottle would have been a better investment. It was all he thought of as he ran; his search for water. The humidity around him made the air feel hotter than it was, and Yuuri knew that it wouldn’t be long until all of his skin would be drenched in sweat, his body dehydrated in a short matter of time. 

His feet carried him across long stretches of grass and up a hill that was steeper than it looked. Already, the muscles in his legs had started to tire, and as he approached a thick wall of tall trees, he saw a glimmer of hope in that he could hide himself amongst the foliage. His sprint slowed to a jog, then a brisk as the battle cries from the Cornucopia grew softer and eventually faded to silence. In fact, everything around him was almost eerily silent, aside from birdsong in the leafy canopy high above him. After having spent days in the Training Centre being fussed over and interrogated, it was somewhat strange being alone. Of course, he knew that there were tiny cameras all around him, embedded in things like trees and rocks, but Yuuri hadn’t seen one as of yet. He was still able to pretend that they weren’t there.

A few minutes passed and he felt secluded enough to lower his gaze and open the bag he’d secured from the arena’s centre. His breath hitched as he unzipped the bag, anxious about what sort of materials were inside, and whether or not they’d help his situation. He sighed with relief upon the sight of food. It wasn’t much - only a few plain crackers - but it was better than nothing. Discovering that the bottle he’d found was half-filled with water even brought a thin smile to his lips. The temptation to guzzle it all was strong, and the urge to resist was hard, although he managed to restrain himself, and keep the bottle closed. Also inside the back was a space blanket, six cotton balls, a couple of pieces of dry wood and a tub of petroleum jelly. He had everything he needed to start a fire. Given the humidity and heat of the air around him, Yuuri wondered why on earth he’d be requiring such supplies. It hadn’t yet occurred to him that the nights could get quite cold.

Tall pine trees surrounded his view from all angles, and Yuuri quickly found himself losing his sense of direction. It was the middle of the day, and the blazing sun shone directly above him, so he could even use that to gauge where he was going. He could not remember if his angle had changed from moving straight forward after avoiding collision with thick tree trunks. Still, he supposed that so long as he wasn’t making his way back to the Cornucopia, still presumably the heart of conflict, then he was doing alright. Although, Yuuri knew that he was still unarmed, and there was no better place to go for a weapon than where they were all being showcased.

He stood still for a moment, only turning his head to scope for other tributes. Then, careful as to not get himself lost, he turned one hundred and eighty degrees and began to walk again. As much as he feared the concept of returning to the Cornucopia, he felt like it had to be done. Otherwise, it would only be a matter of time before he would be caught by another tribute, and forced to fight with no means to protect himself. He already knew that Viktor had a sword, that Chris and Seung-Gil were both decently armed, and Mila likely had her hands on the bow she’d been eying. 

The forest floor was mostly dirt and foreign leaves, and Yuuri could hear the crunching sounds clearly under his shoes. He stopped in his tracks, stunned, as he saw footprints in the dirt. As far as he was aware, he was alone, and such could be perceived as a good or a bad thing. There was nobody around to hurt him, although he was still on edge when it came to long-range weapons, and traps that had already been set. The downside of solitude was that he had no one around to help him; no allies.

He wondered what had happened to Phichit. Was he safe? Had he found a weapon, or food? Or was he one of those first three tributes to die in the Cornucopia? Yuuri didn’t want to think about that, although he knew he’d find out for sure come nightfall, when the faces of the fallen tributes were projected into the stars. He knew that, surely, Viktor was still alive, but he remained afraid of confronting him. He would have likely been with Chris as well, and any battle against the two of them would definitely be over quickly, and not in his favour, thought Yuuri.

Considerable time passed and he knew that the Cornucopia was close. He had spent what felt like hours dragging his feet through dirt, snapping twigs and crushing dead leaves under his weight. His focus was more on what was around him rather than directly in front, for the idea had been hammered into him that tributes could be targeting him from all angles, at all times. However, he remained more alone than he had ever been; he hadn’t even been alone in the valleys of Twelve so long on his own, for Phichit had always been there. He thought of his best friend as motivation to keep moving forward, needing it as the hours on his feet were causing his thigh muscles to fatigue. Even the sky was beginning to darken, like a cue from nature to rest, but Yuuri knew he had to keep going. There was no way he was going into the first night of the games with zero protection.

It was only when he came to a patch of rough, hilly terrain that he started to panic. Hills scaled upwards and were devoid of grass entirely. It was upon seeing those hills that his heart started to race and his palms began to sweat more profusely. This was not the area from where he came. It wasn’t something he wanted to affirm in his mind, but he knew there was no other way to explain it. He was lost.

He turned on his heels in a huff and jogged back into the more familiar sea of trees. Not once did he look back at the rugged landscape behind him, instead focusing only on engulfing himself in the forest and hiding amongst the trees and shrubbery, or better still, somehow getting back to the middle of the arena. All he knew was that it would be far better to hide in a bush than it would be to sleep on a bare hill, exposed.

He was well and truly immersed in the forest by the time he grew tired. If he hadn’t known better, he would have rummaged through his bag and eaten all of the crackers he’d found, and finished off the bottle of water, for he was panting, and his body ached from days of strenuous physical activity. Frustrated, he relaxed his knees, bent forward and groaned loudly into his hands. Was this how it was going to end? Rather than have his throat slit or be blown up by a landmine in an instant, was he going to starve to death, slow and painfully, alone without catching sight of another tribute? He was unable to decide if death by exposure was a merciful way to go or not, but before he came to a conclusion, he heard a noise from behind.

It was the sound of crunching leaves. Someone was walking towards him from behind, and he was unarmed. Frozen in fear, he found himself unable to run, instead, a nervous gulp the only voluntarily movement from his body. His gaze wandered frantically, searching for a camera, one that he could look into directly and give an unspoken message of love to his family. Or perhaps, an unspoken apology. _I’m sorry you have to see this. I’m sorry I’m not coming home. I’m sorry for disappointing you._

_If there’s anything after this life, I’ll watch over you._

He closed his eyes, the beginnings of tears forming and trickling down his cheeks, merging with sweat. As they reopened, his clammy hands clenched into fists. Disadvantages be damned, he told himself. His sister was watching, as well as his mother, his father, and everyone who cared from him in District Twelve. Even if this was where he would die, he was going to face his attacker head-on, and look them in the eye as they struck. The footsteps in the leaves grew louder, and he turned around. 

As much as many other tributes liked to believe, Yuuri Katsuki was no laughing stock.


	10. Brothers in Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri hadn't given much to thought as to how he would die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for waiting so long ^_^" I know I'm not a fast writer by any means, but I hope the chapter makes up for the wait! - YuriPirozkhi

Even though he knew that the moment was fast approaching, Yuuri hadn’t given much thought as to how he would die. He figured that he could be met with death in a number of different ways, from a direct and lethal blow to his neck or head, to a much more painful and drawn out death from exposure. He didn’t necessarily have to go as a result of another tribute’s actions, but based on the events of the hours gone passed, Yuuri thought it likely. 

His mind flashed back to the bloodbath at the Cornucopia. He recalled Chris Giacometti and Seung-Gil Lee running into thick foliage, their faces already smattered with blood following their first kills. A third tribute, their name having escaped him, was also killed in the crossfire. Then, of course, there was Yuuko. Sweet, thoughtful Yuuko of District Nine who had left behind three young daughters and a distraught widower, their lives undoubtedly changed forever. She had been killed in the cruellest way, by somebody whom Yuuri had come to admire. Viktor was so charming, so suave and put-together, and he had always seemed to smile in Yuuri’s company. He was well-mannered in his speech, and he was a patient teacher. If Yuuri thought long and hard enough, he could feel the gentle touch of Viktor’s guiding fingers sliding across the back of his hands, holding his waist as he corrected his posture in training. Such a thought almost brought a warmth to Yuuri’s cheeks, until he remembered what the handsome older tribute had done; what he’d done to Yuuko before his very eyes.

As he turned around, he expected death. He expected to be met with the formidable stare of Seung-Gil Lee or to be overshadowed by Chris Giacometti and his broad shoulders. It was as if every muscle in his body had contracted in anticipation, his limbs frozen as adrenaline dictated that he wouldn’t take another step. This was where he would die.

But then he saw _him,_ and it was like a switch had flipped in his brain. It took almost all of his willpower to keep him from falling to his knees. Yuuri Katsuki still had some time to live yet, or at least, he thought that he did. 

“Phichit…” he called to him, relieved.

“Yuuri!” his voice was airy, and deep breaths fragmented his speech. “I was so worried about you! I thought you were dead.”

“I thought I was about to die, too.” 

He bounded towards Phichit until his arms were flung around his shoulders, his body pressed hard against his own. The air surrounding them was warm and sticky, but there was nothing better than the reassuring touch of someone he knew as well as he knew himself. He closed his eyes and relished in the moment of their reunion. He wished it could have lasted longer, but the threat of imminent death had him wary of losing focus. If time had permitted, he would have rested his head on Phichit’s shoulder and revelled in the feeling of calm that had washed over his body. He would have thanked his lucky stars for sending him the one person he could count on, and that they had the opportunity to be together one more time.

Yuuri could feel a patch of sweat at Phichit’s upper back, and the air from his ragged breathing tickled his earlobes. Phichit had been running, that was for sure, but he didn’t know for how long. Bearing this in mind, he stepped back to give the younger boy some air, and watched wordlessly as Phichit leaned forward, his hands tightly holding his knees while his spine relaxed. He wanted to reach into his bag and pull out the half-bottle of water, but ultimately decided against it. Despite trusting Phichit more than anyone else he knew, Yuuri couldn’t guarantee that he’d save any of the water for later.

“Is someone following you?” he asked nervously, his head quickly looking left and right for a sign of an eavesdropper.

“Not anymore,” Phichit assured him, then stretched out his back further and touched his toes. As his palms glided over his calves, he let out a wince.

“Are you okay?” Yuuri was concerned.

“Yeah,” was his friend’s response, and he smiled to reinforce the fact. “I just knocked something earlier while I was running.” A pause. A deep breath. “That Seung-Gil from Five is like a machine; it’s like he never runs out of energy. I don’t know _how_ I lost him,” he admitted. “I really thought he was gonna get me.”

A sinking feeling had bloomed in Yuuri’s stomach as he processed the thought. Just as much as he could be dead at any given moment, he could lose Phichit just as quickly, and he knew that if he was going to win the Games and go home to his family, Phichit’s death was inevitable. Yuuri knew that he needed to die in order for his best friend to get out alive, and to think of his life ending in the blink of an eye was terrifying.

“But he didn’t get you,” he found himself saying, and he was grateful. “You’re still here.”

“And _you’re_ still here.” The smallest hint of a smile tugged at Phichit’s lips.

“Yeah.”

Yuuri exhaled and remembered the weight of his bag pulling at his back. He quickly noticed that he wasn’t the only one who had secured some loot from the Cornucopia’s outskirts, and his eyes immediately focused on the satchel dangling by Phichit’s hip. He wondered what kind of things were inside it. More than anything, he hoped for a weapon, or preferably, something like two daggers so that they both could share. Then again, based on what Yuuri knew about the Games, he assumed that the Gamemakers liked to make things as difficult for the tributes as they possibly could. There was no way that Phichit had two daggers.

“What’d you get?”

Phichit opened his bag almost too willingly, or so Yuuri thought. He displayed the small store of first aid supplies he had without hesitation, and held up a bread roll so that anyone nearby would see it with ease. He also unfastened a smaller pouch, inside which were ten sharp darts, impregnated with poison. He urged Yuuri to take five for himself, after noting that he was unarmed. They would stay together, and if there happened to be an accident, there was a small bottle of antidote in the satchel as well. Phichit promised to share it, even placing his free hand on his heart as he did.

He extended his hand and took the darts, thankful, but worried about giving Phichit a disadvantage. In any situation, five opportunities to kill was far better than zero, but to give up five of his ten shots was quite the compromise. He wondered if he was thinking this through properly. Still, a number of hours had passed since the start of the Games, and the sky was beginning to darken. They wouldn’t be able to wander the arena in search of weapons for much longer, so Yuuri decided that he’d hold onto the darts for at least one night. At this point in time, finding shelter was more important. After all, they needed to survive until the next morning before they could worry about it.

“Thank you,” Yuuri whispered as he gingerly cradled the darts, then put them into his bag. 

Phichit smiled sincerely. “Don’t worry about it. It’s what friends are for.”

“But wait;” he thought out loud, “There’s only one gun…”

“It’s alright,” Phichit insisted, and Yuuri began to worry that he was going to give up the dart gun as well. “You can always stab someone with them. How about I’ll take the long-range targets and you can take short. If I do recall, you’re pretty good with close combat, especially swords…?” The tone of his voice grew cheekier as he continued to talk, and Yuuri knew that he was trying to lighten the mood.

However, he didn’t want to think about Viktor right now, especially after what he’d done. He didn’t know if he could ever forget it. In fact, Yuuri partially expected that the image of Yuuko’s torso being slashed in half would haunt him for every night he slept until he died. 

 

“We need to find shelter before it gets dark,” he advised, hoping that the conversation subject drifted as far away from Viktor as possible. 

Phichit sighed, and they both looked to the sky as its powder blue hue had started to fade. “You’re right.”

They had both unanimously decided to avoid venturing towards the sandy brown hills in the distance, near which Yuuri had found himself uncomfortably exposed and unarmed. Instead, they planned to remain hidden the areas thickest with plant life, and would seek out a sturdy tree, or some dense shrubbery in which to hide. Such a feat was easy, for at this point in time, vastly tall trees surrounded them from every angle, each of them with sturdy, dark trunks and branches that appeared large enough to support their weights. The only issue, of course, was to get to a comfortable resting position without being ambushed, without being snatched from the boughs in their most vulnerable moments or shot downwards to their deaths. Yuuri knew that they’d find somewhere in time, but still thought it best to wander a little from where they already were. They may have spoken just loudly enough to pique the curiosity of someone nearby.

He became conscious of the noises his boots made on the ground as he walked by Phichit’s side. It was good that they were moving a little slow, mainly because the crunching sounds of their shoes against snapping twigs weren’t quite as loud as they could have been. They travelled in a direction adjacent to the eerie looking taupe hills so that they always remained visible in the corner of Yuuri’s eye. As far as he could see forwards, there was only a slowly darkening green, leaves and bushes taking up the majority of his view.

It eventually got to a point where to move further proved too risky, and it was deemed impossible to see well enough to continue. Neither Yuuri nor Phichit could see exceptionally well in the dark, and they hadn’t been fortunate enough to receive night-vision goggles from their sponsors. There was every chance they could wander blindly into a trap and get themselves killed. Given that there were enough hardy looking trees in their vicinity, it seemed best to stay, and the two tributes agreed without argument.

Phichit was the one to inspect their tree of choice, walking around its base to check for abnormalities; potential signs of weakness and inability to support their weights. Yuuri stood close by and maintained a lookout as his best friend searched for deep cracks in the tree, large missing sections of bark, holes in the base of the tree, or signs of uprooting. Although Yuuri knew that it was a fairly quick process, he felt like Phichit was taking forever to check for such simple things. He had brandished one of the poison darts that he’d been given and held it tightly in his right hand, hoping that they were alone but still expecting the worst. He wondered how he would fare if another tribute closed the distance between them, brandishing a weapon and posing a serious threat to their safety and their lives. Yuuri gripped the dart in his hand with more fervour, conscious of the fact that his palm was beginning to sweat. He had to be prepared for anything, and to fight for both himself and Phichit, for his district partner had his back turned, his legs wrapped around the tree trunk, and was able to fend for himself. Yuuri knew that if he did cross paths with another tribute, his chances of victory, or simply of survival, were slim.

“I’m up!” Phichit whispered harshly so that Yuuri could barely hear. “Come on!”

With one last look at the dark forest surrounding him, he turned and faced the trunk.

It wasn’t a difficult climb, for Yuuri had done a lot like this before, back in Twelve. His satchel in place, he jumped and gripped his right hand on the lowest branch, then wrapped his thighs and calves around the tree. Testing each branch before using it to support itself, Yuuri avoided catastrophe and it wasn’t until he had joined his best friend in the canopy. He was surprised that, despite his tiredness and stress, he was able to ascend the tree with relative ease.

“See that lake over there?” Phichit asked, gesturing to a pristine-looking body of water in the distance. “That’s where we need to go tomorrow.”

Yuuri was astounded. If he had continued to walk in the direction he was originally headed, he would have found the water source so crucial to his survival. However, the fear of being left exposed in desert terrain had him spooked.

He nodded at Phichit’s suggestion and made himself comfortable in the fork of two branches. Their goal for the next day would be water. After all, it was impossible to go for more than three to five days without it, and Yuuri knew that the half-filled bottle he had wouldn’t last two people long at all.

“It looks a little like the old swimming hole back home, dontcha think?” he added. “Same sort of shape.”

Yuuri paused to sift through his memories, so irrelevant at a time like this to be at the front of his mind, and recalled an image from home. It was beyond the barbed wire confines of the village, in the territory where he and Phichit went hunting for game. The swimming hole was something they liked to think of as a secret, although they imagined that some from generations past took part in the fun once upon a time. The structure of the pond was untouched, the water crystal clear and always refreshing on a scorching summer day. Flowers bloomed around its boundary in shades of lilac and ivory. It was a sanctuary to escape to after enduring the Reaping and its psychological torture.

Never again.

“Yeah,” murmured Yuuri in response. “Yeah, it does.”

“Remember how we found it? That time when we were both so hungry so we chased that deer all the way across the paddock until we couldn’t even see the village fence behind the trees?”

Yuuri nodded. It was strange how Phichit was able to still speak of the past so fondly, despite knowing that there was no future for him. He wondered as to how he could maintain any emotion other than a desperate fear for his life, or an undisputed anger against the Capitol. Yuuri’s emotional range comprised mainly of those two things, along with a constant feeling of being violated as he suspected there to be a camera near the branch on which he sat. He thought about what the Games’ spectators thought of him as they gazed upon his sullen expression. Were they wondering why he wasn’t dead yet? Then again, perhaps something far more exciting was happening across the arena.

He had no time to answer his friend’s question, for something greater had come along to distract them both. Yuuri knew that it would come eventually, but the shock was still there as the anthem of Panem seemingly boomed from nowhere, the nation’s emblem projected against the night sky.

The first image he saw was the face of the girl from District Eight. It was a simple headshot, taken during training back at the Capitol. Her straight black hair was tied into two braids, and the dark circles under her hazel eyes only highlighted how tired she must have been. Her image also implied that all of the tributes from One through Seven were still alive. Yuuri pursed his lips at the thought. It seemed that the next day would prove just as difficult, with none of the stronger tributes eliminated. Also from Eight, Otabek Altin was alive as well, as he soon learned.

Next to be projected into the sky was Yuuko’s face, and Yuuri couldn’t look at her for long. Even as he stared at her image, her face untouched by Viktor’s blade and a definite warmth in her eyes, he could only think back to the moment of her death. At least she was in a better place, he supposed.

The two tributes from Ten were next, and the sky returned to its normal state. No more had perished since the initial bloodbath at the Cornucopia. Yuuri thought it strange, especially as he recalled the previous year, when only fourteen tributes remained after the first night. It had him curious as to what would happen between now and daybreak, if perhaps this year’s batch of tributes were more cunning and stealth in their killing strategy.

“Only four…” murmured Yuuri, cautious that they may not be alone, “I guess I expected more than that.”

“Have you been counting the canons?” asked Phichit.

Yuuri rolled his eyes, unable to be seen clearly in the dark. “Yeah, of course.”

“Then why’d you expect more?”

He shrugged and pulled up the hood of his coat. The only thing on Yuuri’s mind at that moment was sleep, and the seal of Panem’s appearance generally implied that it was late. Of course, to others, it resembled the opportune time to strike, knowing that others were bound to retire until sunrise. He and Phichit had not spoken much about sleeping arrangements, nor had they expressed any more about their plans other than going to the lake, but Yuuri was tired, and he felt that he was as comfortable amongst the branches as he was ever going to get. His stomach murmured in hunger, but he hushed the growling with his hands. Once they arrived at the lake, he would fill himself up with water and he’d feel better, he convinced himself. Too tired to check if Phichit was awake or not, Yuuri succumbed to slumber.

He wasn’t sure as to how much time had passed, but the sky was still a deep indigo when he was startled awake. The commotion beneath the tree in which he slept had him almost too frightened to move. 

He recognised the booming and confident voice of Michele Crispino, the memory of him chastising his swordsmanship at training fresh in his mind. Unsurprisingly, his twin sister, Sara, was not far behind. Yuuri felt his whole body stiffen as he came to realise what was happening. As much as he liked to think of himself as a decent fighter, he wasn’t able to convince himself that he could take down two career tributes on his own.

That was when Emil Nekola, not a career but still formidable in his own right, followed from the rear and eventually caught up to Sara to be by her side. Such a motion was apparently enough to have the other young man fuming.

With the night air rather still, it wasn’t difficult to hear the goings on below.

“Sara,” growled Michele in annoyance, “why is he still here? I’ve been trying to lose him for hours.” He gestured to Emil quite frantically, the stress of the situation seemingly already getting to him.

“I-” Sara sounded rather shocked. “I thought you were trying to lose us! You just keep bolting ahead all the time, and we can barely keep up with you.”

“Us?” he repeated, a jealous tone to his voice, “We?! I don't know what the hell you’re talking about because your little friend there is a snake.”

“Emil is _not-_ ”

“Please don’t tell me you’re too smitten to realise, Sara. I thought you had better taste than that. The only ‘us’ worth being concerned about is you and I!”

The arguing seemed to go on forever, although Yuuri knew that it was only a few minutes in reality. He watched diligently as the siblings barked back and forth at each other, all while Emil stood quietly and possibly tried to render himself invisible. Watching as the three tributes remained close to the tree in their discussion, Yuuri’s thoughts wandered to the five poison darts in his bag, and whether he’d be able to throw them down with enough accuracy and force to kill. Then again, he supposed that he could only strike one of them, for the other two would likely run away, or scale the tree to take him out themselves. Michele would be the best one to aim for, he thought to himself. With a combat score of nine and plenty of reckless aggression at his disposal, he seemed like the biggest threat out of the group. Yuuri fondly remembered Sara sticking up for him at training, and although he felt like he was grasping at straws to feel hopeful, perhaps she would leave him be, and Emil would follow.

He brandished a dart in his hand as he continued to listen, mostly to the ideas that had manifested in Michele Crispino’s mind, about how his sister was being ‘seduced’ by Emil with the idea that it would make her easier to kill. He insisted time and time again that there was no need for the tributes of Four to have any alliances other than each other, and that the only way he would let Sara taken in by an ally would be if it was over his own dead body. Yuuri thought about how he could arrange such a situation, if only he wasn’t so frightened. He would have much rather that they left him in peace.

The argument came to a halt after one of the siblings uttered three words. Unexpectedly, it was Michele, who had seemingly ended the feud as quickly as he started it.

“Alright, fine,” he admitted with a sigh. “He can stay.”

Yuuri could tell how relieved Sara was simply by the tone of her voice. “Thank you-”

“But-”

“But what?”

Michele’s attention had shifted to Emil, and Yuuri watched him approach the District Five tribute with intrigue. He could imagine that the tension between the three of them was tangible, for he could get a sense of it even up in his tree. What was he going to do? Take Emil’s food and weapons? Kick him to the ground?

“I’ll be watching you every step of the way, got it?” Michele was so close to Emil that he appeared to be breathing down his neck. “If you’re here to support Sara like you say you are, then you’d better act that way. When we settle down for camp, all of our resources will be split three ways, no ifs, no buts. Do you understand?”

Emil swallowed hard. “I understand.”

“Good.” A pause. “So, now that we’re allies, what do you say we hug it out like brothers?”

Yuuri watched as Michele extended his arms. Emil made a similar gesture soon after. 

“Brothers,” confirmed Emil as he stepped forward. However, things quickly took a turn.

One could have blinked and missed it, but the sound of Emil’s neck snapping was one that stood out amongst the stark silence, as was the crash of his lifeless body to the floor. It echoed in Yuuri’s ears for seconds to come, replaying in his mind multiple times until the cannon sounded to indicate that Emil’s heart had stopped. 

If there was any good time to throw down one of the darts, it was now, but Yuuri was frozen in fear. Her ally slaughtered by her brother of all people, Sara Crispino was the most vengeful she’d ever been, and Michele had already showcased his murderous capabilities. Yuuri wanted nothing more than to disappear amongst the leaves and, thankfully, he felt that the escalating conflict between the District Four siblings acted as the perfect cover to render him unnoticeable. After all, why would Michele Crispino of all people stay put when his sister was running with a huff into the distance? 

Wind blew fiercely against the trees as a hovercraft lowered to the ground, retrieving Emil’s body from the arena and taking it on board, unused resources and all.

“...Yuuri…,” Phichit groaned, finally roused from his slumber after minutes of yelling from down below. “Did something happen? You look wide awake.”

He was too tired to explain, not to mention that he didn’t want to relive the experience so long as he didn’t have to. 

“Nothing important,” he responded. “I was just thinking, maybe we should sleep in shifts.”

“Smart move,” Phichit praised him with a smile.

“Go back to sleep,” insisted Yuuri. “I’ll take over in a few hours.”

Phichit didn’t seem to argue with the idea, and instead wriggled into a more comfortable position, falling asleep as quickly and easily he did the first time.

Of that, Yuuri was envious. He wasn’t sure as to how he’d get a decent night’s sleep at all throughout the Games, not when he’d witnessed two deaths in mere hours. He knew upon closing his eyes, he’d be met with Yuuko’s shocked expression as she was impaled, or the oblivious smile on Emil’s face in the seconds before he was killed. Even if through some miracle, he managed to emerge from the arena victorious, he knew that his days of peaceful slumber were well and truly behind him.

Such was how the Hunger Games messed with one’s head.


	11. Of Friends and Fire (Sara)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri had watched an argument between Sara and Mickey Crispino twenty-four hours ago. Since then, the alliance between the twins from Four has all but crumbled to nothing. Sara is left to explore the arena on her own, unsure as to what her future will now hold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Thanks so much for your support and patience again; I hope the chapter is to your liking. It was quite fun to play with a new perspective! Of course, I haven't forgotten about Yuuri. There's just so much going on with everyone else's faves that it's definitely worth mentioning!
> 
> Special shout outs to Priti (please remember your antacids) and Britt (I'm sorry skdfhjksdhf lol)
> 
> Enjoy chapter eleven! ~ YuriPirozkhi

Twenty-four hours had passed since their fight; since she had lost her two greatest allies in the space of mere seconds. In those moments, her combat strategy and her strongest alliances had fallen to pieces. Emil was killed in the blink of an eye in a moment she never saw coming. Michele Crispino, her own twin brother, was someone Sara thought would have her back until the very end, but instead, it showed that in the direst of times, even he couldn’t seem to trust her judgement. If he couldn’t put his complete faith in her when it counted, she wondered, could she really do the same by him? Such a conflict was bound to happen anyway, thought Sara, for this was more than a simple sibling quarrel, but the Hunger Games; a lethal mind game played on a grand scale, for all to see. One or both of them would die as a result of this.

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way, she recalled. As children and young teenagers, the twins had their own strategy for what would happen come Reaping Day. All going well, they would wait things out, then volunteer at separate games when they were older and in a better position to win. Mickey would go first, annihilate the competition with his brute strength and no-nonsense attitude, then provide sound advice to his sister and lead her to greatness in the following year. Long ago, before they were born, a brother and sister from District One had done something very similar. Instead, of course, things did not go their way. Their plan had been that Mickey would volunteer for his sister if her name was drawn first, but it was his that was read before all of District Four on that fateful day. His stare was so intense from the presentation stage that she could feel his emotions from across the crowd in the town square. It was like he had begged her not to volunteer for him, that they would simply have to execute their strategy for greatness a few years early. It was when Sara’s name followed suit that even their backup plan had failed miserably, and their distraught parents started wailing uncontrollably as they realised that at best, they would be losing one of their children, leaving the survivor without their twin.

Sara’s only solace in knowing that her brother was safe was that she hadn’t yet seen his face in the sky. In the time she’d spend walking the deep forests alone, she’d witnessed a harsh storm brewing at the arena’s west side, and heard three cannon shots fire as the weather intensified. That night, the images of three other tributes joined the stars, any prospective hopes from their districts fading into nothingness as their illuminated faces dimmed to indigo.

She supposed that logically, the treacherous storm would be the event attracting most of the Capitol’s attention, which was why she wasn’t receiving many sponsor gifts. Being off the spectators’ radar meant less attention, which could prove fatal for those without any die-hard fans. Sara was fortunate that she came from a respected career district and had the sympathy of many on her side as one half of the ‘doomed twins of Four’. Water came her way on one occasion, serving her well in her time alone. She otherwise had the necessary skills and tools to harvest and slaughter her own food when needed, which at the time consisted mostly of aloe vera leaves.

Her path was headed towards a large lake to the arena’s north, which she had spotted from a tree some hours prior. It glistened in the moonlight and shone a deep sapphire blue, the mere sight of it making her salivate. To arrive there was her goal, for it was the ideal place to make shelter. She would hide amongst the foliage and cave network nearby, pouncing on unsuspecting and more vulnerable tributes. Perhaps, she could even cross paths with her brother again, but yet, how would he greet her? With a smile? With disgust? Or would he dare to strike her down without mercy? Sara didn’t wish to think about it.

Night had fallen by the time she reached a change in terrain, the thick greenery that surrounded her quickly diminishing and being replaced by rough, sandy hills. Trees in the area became more sparse, the trunks of them not quite as thick as those behind her. Her footsteps became quieter as she trod in the sand, and it made her cautious to listen more intently for other people closeby. To sneak up on someone had become easier, but in the same way, Sara was more vulnerable. Every other second, she glanced quickly behind her, checking to see if anybody had appeared as if from thin air. She knew of a few tributes who specialised in such tactics. 

The sound of rhythmic beeping came as a pleasant surprise. 

Sara looked to the night sky and watched with gratitude as a silver capsule came floating towards her, a metallic parachute helping it descend slowly and carefully. She held out her hands and the gift landed perfectly in her palms, opening at her touch. As well as the present from her sponsors, there was a neatly written note.

_You’re almost there, Sara. Love from District Four._

Inside the capsule was a pair of night vision goggles, which she knew would give her a great advantage in helping her find the water by daybreak. Knowing that undoubtedly a camera was nearby, Sara brought her fingers to her lips and blew a kiss to the sky as a way of thanking those who cared about her.

Once she had put on the goggles, Sara could see almost as well as she could during the daytime. She no longer had to fear tripping over small rocks that she couldn’t see, or struggling to differentiate the colours of the landscape surrounding her. For a few short moments, Sara Crispino felt on top of the world, for she had an advantage that few, if any, of the other tributes had. 

Such a feeling was only short-lived, however, as the sound of chatter became more noticeable in her periphery. Seemingly over one of the large hills was a tribute camp of sorts. There were at least two tributes a short distance away; allies, no doubt. She couldn’t decipher their conversation, but picked out particular words such as ‘water’, ‘healing’ and ‘warm’, all words of interest on such a cool, crisp night. As much as she knew her own worth, that she was strong and a capable fighter, Sara had reasonable doubt as to whether she could take down two or more tributes in a fight, and leave relatively unscathed. Of course, she thought herself strong enough to win a fight with two weaker, small tributes, but as often happened in the Hunger Games, the poorer, more unlikely districts had their fair share of skilled fighters as well, often taking many by surprise. Sara’s plan of action remained to sneak past the refuge, instead making a beeline to the water and quenching her thirst before settling into shelter come daybreak. 

She remained relatively quiet as she crossed the sands, taking extra caution to be as stealthy as possible despite being almost certain that no one was around. It took all of her willpower to not wander towards the food being cooked beyond the dunes; she hadn’t had a proper meal in two days, let alone one that was hot. The inside of her nose began to sting as she took in the scent of roasting meat, and her mouth watered involuntarily. The soft glow of a fire in the distance appeared so comforting and inviting. Her muscles tensed as she contemplated ambushing the camp for a chance at food, even if it meant that she could end up disadvantaged as a result.

She decided to persist, knowing that she could go weeks without food if her life depended on it. It was water that she needed, as much as she craved sustenance and warmth.

In hindsight, such a decision proved to be life-saving, for had she embarked in a different direction, she would have ended up blocking the path of another tribute’s weapon. As Sara began to tip-toe around the settlement, the beckoning fire shone onto the tip of a sharp silver arrow, and her eyes widened upon the sight. 

Mila Babicheva was only metres away, and she was poised to kill. Such a realisation prompted Sara to rush behind a mound of sand, hoping that Mila’s attention was too fixed on the campfire to notice.

All that she could hear were echoes of the crackling fire, and the unsuspecting chatter of the tributes in the distance. After careful listening, Sara had identified them as Leo de la Iglesia and Guang-Hong Ji of District Eleven. It was almost guaranteed that they would end up sticking together in combat, she thought, for they were almost joined at the hip during training at the Capitol. It wouldn’t serve to their advantage, however, for neither of them were particularly successful in terms of sponsors. Neither of them had remarkable combat scores or special talents, and Capitol audiences tended to veer away from sponsoring poorer districts. There didn’t seem to be much fun in throwing money at the underdog.

Still, they had managed to capture some game and construct a fire, so they weren’t doing too badly, thought Sara. They were blissfully unaware that one of Panem’s deadliest young assassins was in their midst, and had put a near unmissable target on one of their heads. Mila, or what Sara could see of her, looked like a marble statue, beautifully carved to hold a fearless expression, her muscles rigid and the lines of her arms perfect. She would not miss her shot.

“ _Leo!_ Look out!”

Mila’s arrow flew through the air at breakneck speed, and desperate shuffling could be heard from beyond the dunes, then a blood-curdling scream. As expected, the District Two sniper had hit her target, although it was not as expected.

For a few seconds, there was silence, and even the frantic movements had stopped. 

“...Guang-Hong?” Leo de la Iglesia’s concern quickly turned to panic with each time he repeated his district mate’s name. The sound of a cannon hushed him, however, and all that left his mouth were mournful sobs. 

At that moment, Sara realised that there was only Leo remaining at the campsite, and he was weak. She could kill him easily, she decided, but it was Mila’s looming presence that posed more of a challenge. Slowly turning her head to the right, she spotted the deadly redhead loading another arrow, her aim likely for the second young man. However, it became clear rather quickly that such a shot wouldn’t be achieved so easily, for Mila had been spotted.

Leo had emerged from the safety of the sand dunes, making himself more visible and in a place where he could see Mila with more clarity. He pointed defiantly at her, his teeth gritted and his cheeks stained with tears. His other hand was covered in his ally’s blood, and clenched into a white-knuckled fist. His entire body seemed to be trembling in a mixture of anger and fear, almost like there were too many ill-meaning words he wanted to shout, but his tongue was getting them confused before he could speak.

“ _You!_ ” he managed to yell in between deep breaths. His chest heaved and he lowered his arm to his side to unveil a weapon that he’d likely made himself. A sharp rock fastened to a narrow branch with rope, Leo wielded it like an axe, though Sara imagined it would work more like a club in delivering brute force. 

“Don’t be such a coward!” he spat at her. “Come and fight like you mean it!”

It was the first time that Sara heard Mila laugh, and she found it rather frightening. It was as if she thought Leo’s defiance pitiful at best, and that she was so sure of her victory that she even lowered her bow. Tucking the bolt in the quiver behind her back, she emerged fully into Sara’s view and shrugged, a devilish smirk gracing her features.

“If you insist, Eleven,” cooed Mila. “Show me what you’ve got.”

Sara felt her knees grow weak at the sound of her voice, and even more so as she was able to look at her from a better angle. Even after two days in the wilderness, the bowhunter looked like she’d been ripped from the pages of a glossy magazine, although perhaps one found in the districts rather than from the Capitol. Mila’s beauty was more of a natural one, not defined by pastel-hued skin or layer upon layer of makeup. Sure, her burgundy curls looked elegant as ever as they bounced next to her chin, but it was her face that had Sara drawn to her. Embers flickered in her ocean blue eyes, shimmering with ferocity in the moonlight. Her pointed nose, rosy lips and flawless porcelain complexion made her look like a doll, albeit a doll that had the skills and weapons to kill. 

Sara felt her heart flutter as Mila approached Leo and his campfire, almost hoping that she would emerge victorious from their fight. While she knew that Mickey wouldn’t allow such a thing, Sara had been so in awe of Mila from the moment she’d seen her, and she knew that she had to at least try to form an alliance. At any sign of struggle on Mila’s part, she would step in and force the battle to end in her favour, she decided. If Mila refused an alliance or a truce after that, she would push her into the fire, but she didn’t really want things to end that way. The District Two tribute was too skilled, too valuable to die so early in the Games. Such was why career alliances tended to flourish.

Rather than use her arrows for long-distance combat, Mila pulled one from her quiver and clenched it tightly, wielding it like a harpoon. Her fingers curled around the silver dart, she advanced with a kind of frightening confidence, and Leo could only step backwards in response. 

He changed his stance to one of offence, his legs firmly apart with one in front of the other. Leo heroically brandished his makeshift axe in both hands, the sharp rock at its tip bloodied from the game he’d already slaughtered. As Mila ran forward, arrow in tow, Leo swung his weapon with great force, and would have pounded her skull had she not crouched at the right moment. His teeth were bared and gritted in anger, his eyes glistening with tears as the body of his fallen ally lay limply next to him. There was a great deal of passion in his combat style, the brute force of his swings conveying both his despair and his desperation. Leo de la Iglesia had just lost one of his closest friends from home, his strongest ally in the games, and now faced one of the most formidable Career tributes in the arena, with only a rock and a large stick. Sara could see the emotion etched onto his face as he fiercely swung his weapon, missing the agile redhead by the tiniest of margins.

Despite her background knowledge and expertise, Mila was not faring as well in the battle as Sara had expected. Then again, the bowhunter was using her arrow as a hand-held weapon, the distance between her and Leo too small to justify nor allow taking precise aim. Her movements were jagged and fast, the path of her arrow seemingly straight until it was blocked by Leo’s axe. She appeared to be dodging a lot more blows than she dealt, even finding herself on the receiving end of his strikes once or twice. The square hits to her shoulder and thigh caused her to yelp in pain, although she did not bleed. While reasonably pointy for a rock, the makeshift axe was not sharp enough to cut through Mila’s clothes and draw blood. However, it was highly likely that she would bruise and ache in the hours to come.

“This … shouldn’t … be this … hard!” Mila growled in frustration as Leo parried another one of her strikes. She shook scarlet locks from her eyes and leapt towards him again.

Sara continued to watch the battle unfold with a keen eye, waiting for the appropriate moment to intervene. Judging purely by the size of the weapons involved, Sara imagined that Mila would have a hard time for although killing someone with an arrow stab was possible, it was difficult at best. Leo had a durable clobbering weapon, and neither of them were particularly well-armoured. Enough blows to the head would render him victorious if he could knock the redhead out cold. Mila however, needed a more direct hit with her dart, and this put her at a disadvantage. 

She could tell the moment that Mila was in trouble by her voice. It was not a battle cry, nor a grunt of stubbornness or persistence, but a genuine exclamation of pain. The rock on Leo’s weapon collided with her head and gave a mighty thud, causing for the Career tribute to wail in distress as she fell to the ground. Her weapon of choice was rather poorly reinforced and prone to breakage, but luckily did not snap in two as she tumbled.

“That was for Guang-Hong,” Leo spoke to her triumphantly despite their fight being far from over. 

Although not at lightning speed, Mila rose to her feet once more. Her ruby curls became mingled with dirt and a rough graze adorned her cheek, but no such matters kept her from brandishing her arrow and taking a new aim at Leo’s neck. It was a tricky target even for the most skilled fighters, especially with a weapon so easily compromised. On top of this, her stance had become unstable, her blue eyes wide as if she was disoriented.

It was at this moment that Sara decided to intervene, knowing that Mila would unlikely dodge another blow to the head quickly enough. She feared that in a strange turn of events, one of the most frightening women in the Games would be killed by an unknown from Eleven, all because of a boost of emotions and adrenaline. He wouldn’t make as much of a reliable ally, thought Sara, given her background and what many came to think of those from Four.

If Mila couldn’t take Leo down, she would do it for her.

Emerging from behind her sandy hideaway, Sara sprinted towards the campfire with as much energy as she could muster, determined to catch the young man off guard. With Leo’s focus entirely on his ally’s killer, Sara felt like the had the chance to apply the element of surprise. By the time she was close to him, Leo’s eyes had not shifted, instead fixed on Mila as he revelled in her weakened stature. 

Sara collided with him and tackled him to the ground, axe and all. A nasty thud sounded as Leo’s head met with a rock by the campfire, rendering him unconscious. She then took a step back as Mila approached him, a satisfied look on her battered face, and turned his body towards the sky with her foot. 

“I could have done that myself,” she murmured to Sara, who chose not to contest her opinion. 

Mila then inspected the area for blood, and it was quickly determined that Leo’s injuries from his fall were not severe enough to be considered life-threatening. He certainly wasn’t dead, as the only sounds that echoed in the air were that of the crackling fire. It became clear that he was merely concussed, and in an environment like the Hunger Games, that simply wasn’t good enough. Using an arrow in place of a knife, she impaled Leo’s stomach three times, pulling the dart out sharply with each puncture. The sight of blood pooling at his t-shirt had Mila smirking with pride. It was as if she didn’t mind that Leo’s cannon was still to sound.

“For good measure,” the redhead insisted with a shrug.

“But he’s not dead,” remarked Sara.

“He will be.” Mila was rather nonchalant about the situation. “He hurt me. I want him to die slowly.”

Sara nodded. “Oh.” A pause. “Fair enough.”

Before she could say much more, Sara had already lost Mila’s attention. The redhead had proceeded to rummage through Guang-Hong and Leo’s backpacks, pocketing their food and any other resources she deemed to be useful. She caught her looking at her with a confused expression, then gestured for Sara to follow suit.

“Jeez, I’m the one who got hit in the head,” Mila teased. “Get what you can and let’s go.” She then made a passing glance at Leo, slowly bleeding onto the ground. “He’ll die eventually; relax.” To further show her disinterest in the young man’s well being, she kicked a small mound of sand into his wounds, unintentionally making way for another method of torture. Arenas were often filled with genetically modified creatures to wreak havoc unto the tributes, and insects were no exception. As Mila destroyed the sandy pile, a trail of large ants began to emerge from the ground, drawn to the blood seeping from Leo’s stomach. They crawled towards his weakened body in droves, leaving Mila both astounded and alarmed.

“Probably poison,” she alerted Sara before gingerly stroking the wound on her cheek. “Let’s go.” 

Sara had retrieved a decent amount of food from Guang-Hong’s backpack before Mila had led her away from the campsite. She looked back longingly at the untouched meat burning to a crisp atop the fire, wasted. Still, she supposed that she couldn’t have everything, and to have any food at all as well as a new ally was far better than nothing. Sara revelled in the feeling of her hand being held as much as she yearned for the roasted game, but she knew that to have Mila Babicheva of all people on her side was better than any hot meal. As far as her luck was concerned, it was growing steadily over time. Such couldn’t be said about Leo, whose limp body was growing more covered in bloodthirsty ants with every second. It wasn’t long until he was completely immersed in insects, but it took minutes for their venom to cease the beating of his heart.

“So where’s your brother?” Mila asked, cheek evident in her voice. “I thought you weren’t _allowed_ to have other allies.”

Sara looked towards the ground, thinking about just how protective Mickey had always been over her. “I don’t know,” she eventually replied. “We became separated.” She decided not to mention what had happened; that she had fled from him in terror, and that her trust in him had never been so low.

“Still alive?”

“Yeah,” Sara said, relieved. She had only heard the most recent two cannons since the storm. No one else had perished since the three faces lit up the sky. “He’s somewhere. I hope he’s okay.”

“I know the feeling,” offered the Mila. “I lost Yuri yesterday. I know-” A pause. “I know he’s fine, but I still worry. He’s always been like a little brother to me.”

“Sorry to hear that,” murmured Sara. Having her brother in the games with her was something she wouldn’t wish on anybody. Having a close friend in the arena wouldn’t be much different, she supposed.

Mila sighed and let her gaze wander into the distance, facing the opposite direction to where Sara was headed. She tucked some stray hairs behind her ear and looked towards the thickening forest with narrowed eyes. 

“We need to get water,” she announced with confidence, despite facing the greenery from which Sara had just come.

“There’s a lake further north,” piped up Sara, pointing in the direction of her original path. “It should only be a few hours away if we start going there now.”

“No,” Mila rejected her advice. “We need to go West.”

“Where the storm was?”

“Exactly,” she replied matter-of-factly. “The Gamemakers manufactured the storm to drive everyone to the North lake. They’ve tainted the water. I just- I know they have. Yuri would know that, too.”

In Sara’s opinion, it was a reasonable argument. It wouldn’t have been the first time that the Capitol had led the tributes into a trap. Additionally, it had become clear that Mila desperately wanted to find her lost ally. It had her wondering if the kindness she’d initially showed her would fade once Yuri reappeared, if they would team up and kill her when her guard had been let down. Then again, She could find her brother before such a thing ever happened, and she hadn’t seen or heard any hints of his presence nearby. Perhaps Mickey had retreated to the West as well, she thought. Weapons and resources from the fallen would have been scattered amongst the abandoned terrain. 

“By the way,” Mila broke the silence between them, “Thank you for earlier.”

Sara felt the younger girl’s hand on her shoulder and flinched. She wasn’t sure if it was because memories of Mickey and Emil had begun to echo into her mind, or because she was still in awe of Mila’s beauty, even when half of her face had been bloodied. 

“You’re welcome,” Sara murmured, her cheeks growing warm as she spoke. 

“It’s okay; I’m not going to hurt you,” she assured her. “Not after you saved my life. In case you haven’t figured it out, we’re definitely allies now.”

Sara swore she was dreaming when she felt Mila’s lips on her cheek, and her skin seemed to tingle for seconds afterwards. At that moment, it was enough for her to believe that the mysterious sniper meant well. She only turned back once to look north, the lake she aimed to reach sparkling softly under the moonlight. Instead, she ventured towards the vacated wasteland of the west, with her new ally in tow. She felt better than she had all day, and allowed for Mila to grasp her hand when she reached for it. Her only concern was that things had become too good too quickly, and that the bliss of sharing an alliance with such an intriguing young woman would cloud her judgement and hinder her focus. 

Still, one thing remained certain in her mind. She had to find her brother before she lost herself.


	12. Alliance (Mila)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mila hopes that taking Sara to the ruins of the storm will help her reunite with Yuri.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually don't know how to explain why this update has taken so ridiculously long, and I'm sorry. Much love to everyone for your patience as you waited, and of course, welcome to new readers! - YuriPirozkhi

This was something she had imagined for a long time, for as long as she’d known that the Hunger Games existed. It was something for which she had spent the bulk of her eighteen years in preparation. Mila Babicheva tucked a lock of burgundy hair behind her ear and remembered what she’d been told, lessons from her experienced and frank-speaking mentor echoing inside her mind. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine the furrowed, overly-plucked brow of Lilia Baranovskaya, her intense gaze piercing into her very soul. _Never lose sight of your weapon,_ Lilia had told her, and upon remembering such advice, she brought a hand to stroke the sleek silver bow at her back. Part of her knew to check it more frequently, especially since she had company, and Sara was supposedly unarmed. Still, Mila felt like she ought to refrain from making accusatory remarks, or being openly untrustworthy at this stage, because the tribute from Four had a skill which would prove very important, and hopefully, very soon.

Of all the remaining competitors in the arena, Sara Crispino had the best perceptual awareness, and was extremely good at picking up environmental cues. Not to mention, she had received a pair of night-vision goggles from a sponsor, an item that Mila would have loved to steal for herself. There was no telling how long it would take until they found Yuri, and it was likely that he’d put his agility and flexibility to good use, meaning he’d be difficult to spot, at best. 

All Mila knew at this stage was that he was alive, and that allowed her to breathe. He could be injured, sick, or starving, but she had every faith in her ability to nurse him back to health. Until she could be reunited with her district mate, the fewer cannon sounds she heard, the more relaxed and level-headed she felt.

Having Sara around helped to ease the mood as well, at least a little. Every now and then, Mila would be reminded of the water-loving aspects of District Four, and then the fierce passage of water that caused for her and Yuri to flee their separate ways. The storm that rocked the West side of the arena was something she’d think about every night, even after returning home from the Games victorious, and especially if it contributed in any way to Yuri’s death. She had never had to run so fast in her life.

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” Sara asked, snapping the younger tribute from her thoughts. The two young women had sought refuge in a mass of bushes to eat, crunching on a handful of sponsor-sent crackers. They were careful not to go overboard and gorge on their rations, for there was no telling as to when they’d receive any more, and if they’d have to live off of the land.

“No,” answered Mila with a sigh. “I’d always wanted one, but my parents had trouble having me as it was.” She shrugged before wiping her mouth, brushing away crumbs that had stuck to the corners of her lips. “I guess it worked out okay. I got sent to all the best training schools at home, which put me in a good position for the Games. I can bring a lot of honour back to my family, and to Lilia.”

“Mickey and I work on a fishing boat with our papa.” 

Mila didn’t have the heart to correct her, to say that she ought to be speaking in past tense. 

“Actually, it’s more a family market, I guess. We do the actual fishing and Papa drives the boat. His shoulder’s not what it used to be so the heavy lifting is a bit hard for him. Then, we sell them at the town market. We had a little bit of combat training, but most of the victors from Four ended up winning because they were working at sea from a young age.”

“So you think you can win?”

“Yes.” It took Sara a few moments to answer.

“Even without your brother?”

She hesitated again. “...Yes.”

Mila pursed her lips and gazed towards the ground. “Interesting.”

She didn’t know why Sara was divulging such information to her, and telling her meaningless factoids about her home life and her family. It was nice to listen to her voice, however, as it reminded her that she wasn’t completely alone. It wasn’t quite the same as Yuri’s murmuring and teasing, but it was just as good, if not even better in a different way. 

Sara was someone she could look at in a different light, who wasn’t someone she considered family or even a friend. The violet-eyed woman was a brand new ally; mysterious, intriguing, beautiful. There were many things that Mila wanted to ask, even in their limited time. Why had she attacked Leo the night before, instead of herself? What had separated her from her brother? When she said that she could win the Games, did that mean that she would kill her, if needed, to do so? Of course, these weren’t ideal questions to ask, for it could prompt her to blurt out private information, words and strategies she couldn’t afford to be spread around the arena. Besides, if Sara came to know too much, Mila would likely have to kill her, and she didn’t particularly want to do that. Not unless she had to, of course.

She looked at Sara in silence for a passing moment, thinking about how well the two had come to get along in such a short time. It was almost cruel that they had to meet in such a cruel and doomed circumstance, with their time together so limited, and coming to an end at potentially any time. She imagined what it would have been like if they’d grown up together in Two, if they had the chance to playfully spar at Mr Plisetsky’s defence academy. Her lips pursed and her face grew warm at the thought of them in a training round of hand-to-hand combat, the fighting ring silent apart from assertive grunts and heavy breathing. She pictured Sara’s curvaceous figure fitting snugly in her weapons training uniform, sweat causing her olive skin to sparkle, and forming a wet line underneath her breasts. She would have allowed her to tackle her to the ground without a complaint.

“Interesting?” Sara asked, a hint of confusion in her voice. “What’s so interesting?”

Mila knew exactly what she meant when she spoke. What piqued her interest was Sara’s quiet confidence; that despite coming across as the more timid and less frightening of the Crispino twins, the dark-haired beauty still had a fire inside her spirit, a competitive drive and a stern belief that she could win without her brother fighting her battles. It had Mila intrigued as to what skills she had been hiding, why her combat score was lower than Michele’s if she knew that she could beat him.

Her head tilted to one side as she peered into Sara’s deep, violet eyes. 

“You really don’t know how captivating you are, do you?” Mila purred before leaning closer, temporarily forgetting about the remnants of crackers sitting on a wrapper between them. Her hand gingerly resting on Sara’s cheek, she quickly peered beyond the bushes, making sure that they were alone. The last thing she wanted was to be ambushed, tricked or killed during the one moment in which her guard was down. Upon making sure that they were well hidden, Mila closed all but an inch of the gap between her lips and Sara’s, then softly shut her eyes and relaxed her body as she tasted her. To feel her skin caressed by such warmth and softness made her feel like, for a split second, she wasn’t in a hostile, trap-filled environment where she would likely die. She could block out what was happening around her and focus on the moment, revel in the feeling of Sara’s fingers at the back of her neck giving her goosebumps. Her first kiss with a beautiful woman. Her first kiss with Sara. Potentially, her last kiss ever.

“Mila-” she broke apart from her, her eyes sincere and wide. “We need to be careful.” Sara gave a small sigh. “What if- What if someone finds us?”

“I’ll kill them.” 

It was something that Mila meant wholeheartedly, unless, of course, it was Yuri. He and Sara were the only tributes whom she’d have difficulty eliminating from the Games, and it was not because of their abilities. The emotional attachment she had to Yuri was too great - something she knew would pose a problem as the Games progressed - and Sara had saved her life for reasons completely unknown. If she had to hurt either one of them, she wouldn’t be able to look either of them in the face.

“What if it’s Mickey?”

A sour pout spread across Mila’s lips. She had seen in the training centre, and heard from Sara directly, just what her twin brother could do, and she imagined that his abilities would be amplified when he was angry. She’d been told about what he did to Emil, with his bare hands, no less, and he’d barely laid a single finger on her. Heaven forbid what he’d do if he caught the two girls in each other’s arms.

“I thought he only told you ‘no boys’,” teased Mila, but the mood was gone. It was time for them to pack up their food and migrate West. 

Carefully gathering every last crumb of their rations, the archer rewrapped the food and tucked it deep inside a satchel, the strap of which crossed over her chest. After they stood, her quiver secured at her back and her bow held tightly in one hand, she clasped Sara’s fingers in the other. She watched on with admiration as the older woman examined the skies, not needing a compass, and pointed in the direction they needed to go. The way the afternoon sun shone on her hair and illuminated her skin made Sara look like it burned for only her.

“Come on,” murmured Sara, her tone contrasting greatly from Mila’s cheeky remark. “Before the sun sets.”

“But you have night goggles,” the redhead protested.

“Mm, but you don’t.”

They held hands often as they walked together, still while keeping an eye out for potential threats. Sara held a slim twig in front of her while they navigated unclear paths, such as those dense in thick grasses that could hide snatches, traps and triggers. They recapped on the events from the days prior; the shocking storm that had flooded a cave network near the arena’s boundary, forcing many to flee for their lives and an unlucky few to lose theirs. Sara explained her perspective of the events, for she had only seen glimpses of heavy rainfall, the violent crackings of tree trucks and the change of horizon as their canopies toppled to the ground. There was only so much that Mila could say before she felt a frog in her throat; that the wet rocky terrain was too unstable and slippery for her to get to Yuri in time, that a thunderstruck tree truck and opaque fog soon rendered him invisible, and the heavy rain meant that she couldn’t hear where he went. She looked to the ground as Sara asked a question with her eyes. No, she didn’t recall her brother being there. The only other person she remembered trying to escape was Jean-Jacques Leroy.

They talked about their lives at home before the games, how Sara collected seashells and Mila had a knack for teaching younger children. It was an attempt to lighten the mood, if only for a minute or two, for dwelling on their doomed existences proved to be rather tiring. It meant that many conversational topics were inappropriate or hard to dwell on, for what was the point in talking about the future when they weren’t going to have one together? Talking about their interests proved hard as well, for it only occurred to them they’d never do such things again. Sara would never go fishing with her brother again, nor would Mila get to take Yuri clothes shopping after they trained. All that really mattered was the moment at hand, and making the most of what situation they were dealt. With that thought in mind, Mila reached for Sara’s hand again. 

It wasn’t hard for her to recognise the scene of the storm; although a number of things had changed, namely the trees that had toppled and the shrubs that had been crushed by raging water, many things stayed clear in her mind. Just a handful of days ago, she and Yuri had identified a cave network near the arena’s boundary, but eventually stayed clear of it upon seeing a band of other tributes setting up camp. Sure, they were strong, but to fight two against four wasn’t the kind of gamble they prefered. The cave network now was all but destroyed, an avalanche of rocks sealing the once open entrance and undoubtedly leaving valuable food and equipment inside. Mila knew that they were in the right place, but she couldn’t confirm if anyone else had dared to venture back, after so much of the terrain had been shaken and disrupted. It seemed unlikely, given the heavy silence in the air. It was as if even the birds and rodents had moved on to greener pastures.

“You really think Mickey would be here?” meekly asked Sara, likely not convinced by the area’s morbid atmosphere.

“If he’s as smart as you say he is,” was Mila’s response. “The Gamemakers set a trap almost just like this twelve years ago.” Her voice hushed although her tone remained confident. “Lilia went through this with us on the train. Sometimes they’ll recycle their tricks.”

With such a thought in mind, she expected Yuri to appear at any given moment. She knew that he was diligent, that he was paying his utmost attention at all times, ever since his name had been drawn on Reaping Day. She had no doubt that he would be around, potentially even listening in to everything that she said. All she needed to do was find his hiding place, and unfortunately for her, hiding was one of the boy’s greatest strengths.

“I didn’t know that…” Sara murmured, her soft voice shaking with concern.

“It doesn’t matter.” Mila meant such a remark in two ways. The first was that in all honesty, she didn’t really care what happened to Michele. It wouldn’t have fazed her if he was dead. If anything, it meant one less person for her to kill, and that she was one step closer to victory, and to going home. Secondly, such a thing really didn’t matter, for there’s was no question as to who fared best in aquatics. The Crispino twins were the undisputed best when it came to combat in the water, as well as forming defences against it. If there was anyone who could survive in torrential rain and gale force winds, it was Sara’s brother.

The older girl sighed, the corners of her lips then turning upwards.

“You’re right. He’s okay.” Mila felt Sara lean into her, her slender arm curled around her waist while her thick ebony hair tickled her collarbone.

“We’ll find him,” she reassured her, although with Yuri in mind.

Despite being hopeful that she would find her district mate among the abandoned swamplands, Mila had trouble finding even the smallest hints of life, aside from the broken trees and saturated shrubs that clung to it. Even by the river that they found, there didn’t seem to be any small animals or insects quenching their thirst. Wind pushed through the leaves of fallen branches to give the illusion of rodents running to water, but upon inspection, it was indeed all in the mind. It was eerie that if they were both silent and standing still, holding hands, of course, there were moments in which the girls would only hear silence.

But then, there was a voice.

“Sara?”

The direction from which the voice came was difficult to tell, but it didn’t stop the older girl from breaking free from Mila’s grip and starting into a run.

“Mickey!?”

“Sara!”

“SARA!” Mila called fearfully as she, too, began to run. 

It was crucial that they proceeded with caution, especially when the environment gave rise to the perfect opportunity for camouflaged traps. Yet she also found herself sprinting, hoping for the best but also suspecting the worst; that Sara was being lured to her death by the sound of her brother’s voice. And she couldn’t afford to lose Sara, not what they had been through, and especially not yet. They were not one step closer to finding Yuri. Perhaps it was why she was so pessimistic about hearing Mickey’s calling. She wasn’t sure as to what would happen once the siblings became reunited. Sara cared about her twin so deeply, and she wondered if her alliance would shift under his influence; that the District Four tributes would team up and kill Mila mercilessly. At least with Yuri around, it would be a fight of two versus two, with the odds of escaping alive substantially better.

Sara continued to run with fervour, the direction in which she moved changing as the voice boomed from different places. He called her name over and over, sometimes with upwards inflection, and at other times with his voice tinged with anguish. There was no denying that Michele ached for his sister and would not rest until they were together again. It was also certain that deep down, in spite of their arguing and disagreements, there was nobody on the planet whom Sara cared more for than her twin. Still, Mila followed her relentlessly, urging for her to stop, to make less noise, for she could easily be killed in such a vulnerable moment, but the dark-haired tribute did not listen. 

“Mickey?” she called, her voice shaking as tears filled her eyes. “Mickey, I’m coming!”

“Where are you?”

“I’m here!” cried Sara. “I can hear you; I’m here!”

“Sara?” he asked again.

“Mickey!”

“Sara! Where are you?”

“Sara, _stop!_ ” Mila had finally been able to catch up to Sara, pass in front of her, and momentarily bring her to a halt. She could see how the older girl’s eyes had reddened, the skin under them puffy from tears. She knew it was going to be hard to voice her suspicion, and that Sara would not like what she heard, but it was something that she had to know. In this environment, realising the illusion could be the difference between life and death.

“That’s not your brother.”

Sara’s hopeful expression became its polar opposite in a matter of seconds. Her angelic smile morphed into a twisted snarl, her teeth gritted and letting a low growl escape into the air.

“How _dare_ you,” she hissed. “You don’t know Mickey! Or his voice!”

All the while, Mila heard the faint repetitions of _‘Sara? Sara! Where are you?’_. She liked to think she’d heard his voice enough times to know who - or what - was really behind it.

“Everything he says is the same!” She reached forward to hold her shoulders, stopping the other tribute from pushing her aside. “It’s a jabberjay! I know you know this, Sara! You don’t want to believe it, but you know! That’s not him!”

Mila stumbled as Sara broke free from her hold. 

“I get it,” she growled, insulted. “You’re just _jealous_ because your scrawny little Yuri is dying in a ditch and we both know it.”

Her fists clenched in anger; how dare she be taunted with her worst nightmare. While she knew it was only a small chance, there was still a possibility that what Sara had just said was true, and simply the words were enough to put a sickening image in her mind that she desperately wanted to erase. For a single moment, she wanted to throw everything she had at Sara, to slaughter her with her bare hands in the way that Mickey had killed Emil, yet she refrained. Although she thought that she was too smart to be fooled by the repetitive call of a jabberjay, it became clear that it wasn’t the case, and that Sara had let herself be tricked. 

“Fine,” murmured Mila, her voice tainted with bitterness. “Go be with your brother. Go run off and get yourself killed.”

It pained her a little to watch Sara run into the open, chasing a disconnected sound that fluttered about in the ruins. She didn’t know how long it would take for her to make the discovery, if such would be harmless, yet devastating, or one that could seriously endanger her safety. Nonetheless, Mila kept watch of her, and followed slowly. Her bow at the ready, she knew that her body was exposed from all angles, and she needed to be as vigilant as she was before meeting Sara and letting down her guard. Looking at the way Sara was running, she imagined that vigilance was the last thing on her mind at this moment. 

Mila felt her heart skip a beat as, without warning, Sara fell to her knees.

Someone had shot her. She had fallen into a trap. A dagger or a spear or a dart had been thrown into her stomach. One horrible situation after another began to crop up in her mind, and the continued to flood her subconscious as she sprinted to her. 

Sara was curled into a ball, her face buried in her hands, shaking as she cried. Above her, a bird with black feathers and a snow white crest flew in circles, tauntingly repeating her name and matching her brother’s concerned voice.

“I’m so sorry,” Mila told her sincerely as she crouched and placed her right hand on Sara’s shoulder. She relaxed slightly as her touch was welcomed, then shortly she sat beside her and extended her arm around her upper body. “There’s still hope, you know. We both know he’s still alive.”

“He’s so worried…” murmured Sara between sobs. “He’s going to end up distracted and-” A sharp inhale. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. This is _not_ our plan!”

She could feel her body weaken and fall into her. They would need to find a place to rest as soon as possible, for there seemed to be no way that Sara was in the right state of mind for combat. 

“Come here,” purred Mila, then softly kissing her temple. “Of course he’s worried about you. He’s your brother. But we both know he doesn’t need to worry, right?” She held Sara’s chin in her fingers and tilted her head upwards; the tears on her cheeks shone in the evening sunset. “You’re smart.” She put her lips to her left cheek. “You’re strong.” Right cheek. “Not to mention you’re so beautiful and charming that you can make anyone you want crave your company.” 

She seized the opportunity to kiss her again, after attempting to wipe away the dampness on her cheeks with her thumbs. She thought it strange to have developed an addiction to lips she’d tasted only once, yet Sara’s warmth, her embrace, felt like home. She closed her eyes softly and revelled in hearing the quiet moans that Sara gave as she exhaled. Her weight shifted so that Sara fell back against the ground, allowing for Mila to position herself on top of her. Giggles were muffled against the skin of Sara’s neck as she left a trail of kisses and love bites. She felt slender fingers tickle her sides and playful scratches against her back; the feeling of being beckoned closer. Never did Mila think that another tribute of all people would bring about such a sincere smile, such joyous laughter, or the temporary feeling that everything was going to be okay. She smiled as she admired the way the sun brought out the glow in her deep violet eyes, but in her head she heard the voice of another. Her mentor, Lilia. 

_Kill her._

“Is everything okay?” asked Sara innocently. She likely could note the look of conflict on Mila’s face.

She turned her head and cleared her throat. 

“Uh, yeah,” she assured her. “I just- I’m gonna shoot that damned bird.” Without a moment’s hesitation, Mila rose, drew her bow, and shot the jabberjay out of the sky. Thankfully, it wasn’t emulating Michele’s voice when the fatal arrow hit. 

“Pity we can’t make a fire,” she commented before pulling her bloodied arrow out of the bird’s body. “We could have had ourselves a nice dinner.” If only they’d had more time to loot from those District Eleven boys, she thought to herself. “Oh well. We’re still good for a few days. Speaking of which,” she gestured to a large evergreen, one of the only trees to have survived the storm in one piece, so it seemed, and the network of thick shrubbery around it, “- we should probably call it a day. All that emotional stuff must’ve made you tired. Wanna sleep first?” She extended a hand to Sara. In the space of a day, she’d come to quite enjoy walking in close company.

“Only if I can cuddle up next to you,” she teased in response. 

“Of course! As if I could ever say no to that.”

Mila kept watch of the area as her ally slept, and her slumber was peaceful for the most part. She would look away when her face scrunched up, or when she murmured fearfully about her brother and his safety. As promised, Sara was huddled up against her own body, her torso pressed against her leg and her nose buried into the thigh around which her arm was also curled. Every now and then, Mila contemplated waking her ally, to have her move her hands up higher and continue from where they left off a few hours prior, but such wasn’t strategically sound. Sara needed her sleep, and it had been a long and difficult day. Instead, she passed the time by running her fingers through her long, ebony hair and counting the number of leaves on the closest tree branch. When that got boring, she counted the stars, and lost count at around two-hundred-and-forty-seven. She watched the seal of Panem be projected into the sky, as well as the faces of Guang-Hong and Leo, both her kills. No Yuri. No Michele. When day broke and both girls had taken their turn to sleep, their search would continue as normal.

“Wake up, gorgeous,” cooed Mila as she gave her ally a nudge. “Shift’s over.”

Sara groaned before stretching her arms and legs. 

“Five more minutes…”

“Do I have to tickle you awake?” the redhead teased. “I’ll do it." Fingers began to dance down Sara’s side, threatening to dig deeper and make her twitch and jerk from her slumber.

“No tickling! No! I’m awake! I’m awake,” she insisted, then sat up to meet Mila’s eyes.

“Good, ‘cause I’m exhausted. Here,” the younger girl unfastened the night vision goggles from around her head, and returned them to their owner. “They look so much better on you. Wake me up at sunrise, okay?”

“Sure thing,” answered Sara between yawns. “Ugh, you make such a good pillow; it’s gonna be hard to resist cuddling up to you again…”

“Don’t worry,” assured Mila. “I believe in you. Goodnight kiss?”

A quick peck to the lips. “Sleep well, Mila. See you at sunrise.”

For the first time in hours, she moved from her seated position against the tree, and stretched out her back with a satisfied hum. There were no pillows or bedding like she was used to at home, but she had learned to make do with using her jacket to shield her from the elements. After all, sleeping under the stars was something she’d been trained to do for years. Sara gave off a body heat that made her feel safe, and thankfully it wasn’t too long that, nestled against her leg with her head in the grass, she succumbed to slumber. 

__

“Mila.”

…

“Mila, c’mon.” This time, there was a gentle push.

She stirred awake with a cramp in her neck. Her slender arms stretched outwards, pushing against the tree trunk upon which she’d slept that evening. Her powder blue eyes unopened, she groaned in disdain. It was far too early to be awake. A minute or two to adjust was needed, most definitely.

“Mila, get up! We have to go!” 

She felt her body be roughly shoved, and her cheek prodded.

“Alright, alright, Sara. Hold your-” she paused. “Sara?” 

Mila had expected to be blinded by the first few rays of morning sun, and instead opened her eyes to darkness. The figure was hovering above her, and she could feel their breath on her face. Still adjusting to the darkness, she could barely make out the shape of night vision goggles, like baubles sitting atop the front and sides of the face. Overall, her vision was blurred, at best.

“What? Sara?” repeated the figure, confused. “No, the fuck? Mila, it’s me.”

She blamed it on the fact that she was still half-asleep, but initially, her first thought was that she was certainly dreaming. Luck would surely not be so kind to her, she thought, but she felt Sara’s touch against her back and realised that she wasn’t seeing things. 

“ _...Yuri?_ ”

He spoke with a great sense of urgency, his breath ragged. “Yeah, now we have to g-”

Before he could finish the rest of his sentence, Mila had flung her arms around his shoulders and pulled him close. He had lost weight; his upper body felt noticeably more gaunt and she felt his bony chin poke into the meaty part of her back, but he was here and he was okay and it was real. That was all that mattered. She struggled to fight tears as she cradled the back of his head in her hand, playing with locks of oily blonde hair between her fingers. She could feel her heart racing and threatening to burst through her ribcage as her entire body trembled. Part of her still remained unconvinced that she was awake, but she felt Yuri’s arms relax around her as he let out a sigh, his warm sticky fingertips grazing her mid back. Even in the depths of the wilderness, she thought, he was still a typical boy.

“I missed you, too,” he offered in a rare sentiment.

“Were you alone this whole time?” worriedly asked Mila, pulling away in an attempt to analyse his face. The moonlight made it hard for her to see, but she could make out that no serious damage had been done. Both eyes intact and fully open, no infected cuts and no swelling. She momentarily remembered the graze that adorned her cheek, and hoped that it looked better than it felt. Yuri had more important things to worry about, rather than her.

“Yeah, but I’m fine, I promise,” the boy assured her. “Now _come on;_ ” he urged before rising to a stand and extending his hand to help her. “We need to go before we get spotted. We don’t have much time.”

“What are you talking about?” queried Mila, still sitting. “Are you being followed-”

“Sara?”

It was a voice she recognised instantly. Michele Crispino. The intonation was identical to that of the jabberjay from yesterday, and upon realising that, she sighed. Although she’d shot down the bird that was tormenting her ally to no end, it didn’t surprise her to hear that voice again. The Gamemakers were always fans of excess. The Capitol viewers must have enjoyed their reaction.

“Yuri, relax.” She instructed him, then smiled softly. “It’s a jabberjay. It’s not going to hurt you. Besides, you don’t think you could take down him down in a fight? What happened to the confident boy I grew up with?”

She saw the glimmer of Yuri’s teeth under the moonlight in a grin that would’ve been missed if one blinked. 

“There he is!” she teased.

“Doesn’t mean I wanna deal with him right now,” he commented with a shrug. “I bet he’d be pretty angry…”

Mila’s brow furrowed. She supposed he was right. Despite not knowing much about Sara’s older brother, she knew that he was extremely protective in nature. The way she talked about him made it very clear that their bond was unbreakable. It was sure to strike a nerve with him when he eventually saw them cuddled up to each other, holding hands, even stealing a quick peck here and there. Still, Mila was convinced that Sara could help Michele to come to his senses, and lead to the formation of a career alliance. In the worst case scenario, she knew that she wasn’t to hug him under any circumstances. She wasn’t going to end up like Emil from Five.

“Alright,” she conceded. “I’ll go with you. Just let me get Sara; I think she dozed off-”

The sound of a booming cannon caught her by surprise, and she fell to her hands and knees in shock. Her hands winced after striking the ground, for it eventually became apparent that they were coated in a warm, thick fluid. Sara’s blood. The cut to her throat was as clean as it was deep, severing both of her carotid arteries. A pool of red circled her head and shoulders like a halo a foot in diameter, glistening under the pale moonlight. Her face had already lost its colour, her lips blue and smattered with blood. There would have been no saving her, even if she had tried.

Seconds passed before reality was able to set in and Mila shrieked in despair. She backed away from the body and shielded her eyes, then cried out again when she realised she’d put blood on her face. She frantically tried to rub her hands on her trousers, removing the crimson stain from her skin, but to no avail. Patches of it had already dried on her palms. She looked to Yuri for guidance, but found him standing skill, even looking slightly confused.

“Did you know she was hurt?” she called out angrily, tears mingling with the blood on her cheeks. “We could have helped her!”

“What?” she heard Yuri murmur, and she looked away from him out of disgust. 

One small detail made her realise that there was no way he would have helped. The night vision goggles that Sara had been gifted had disappeared, her jet black hair left in a mess with stray pieces aplenty around her crown. They had been ripped from her head, and Yuri had taken them for himself. Suddenly it all made sense. The urgency in his voice. The hesitation to fight Michele directly. The sharp and precise cut to Sara’s throat.

“ _You_ did this.” She growled at him through gritted teeth.

“Uh, yeah?” Yuri stared at her as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. He spoke to her in a way that made her feel like she was going insane, like she was supposed to want this to happen. “She had her arm tight around you. She was gonna strangle you, but fine. No need to thank me.”

“ _Thank_ you?!” she scoffed, furious. “For what?! We were allies!”

“No, _we_ are allies!”

“Are we?” thought Mila aloud. “I don’t know if I can trust you after what you did!”

“What did I do? Save your ass?” It was clear that Yuri was annoyed. “Do I seriously have to remind you that this is the Hunger Games, and not the time or place to get a fucking girlfriend?!”

“And when is? What other time is there?” she asked, and she was met with silence. She turned once more to glance at Sara’s lifeless body, her once vibrant eyes softly closed, never to shine again. Perhaps she was foolish to indulge in her thoughts, to pretend that there was a future ahead of her that she could spend going on adventures and growing old with Sara. Still, it was an idea that helped her to maintain her sanity, to convince her that there was more to look forward to after winning the Games. 

“We’re all going to die here,” she murmured.

Yuri’s conflicted expression made it seem like he was holding his tongue.

“Maybe _you_ will.”

“Sara! Where are you?” called the jabberjay once more, but Mila paid it no mind.

She lacked the energy to keep fighting with Yuri. In fact, dealing with the sudden, gruesome death of her ally and crush had left her all but breathless. A wave of nausea overcame her as her nostrils became tainted with the harsh smell of blood. Her muscles were stiff after a rough night’s sleep, and straining her eyes in the dark only added to the headache sustained by her concussion. If Yuri wanted to blow off some steam by arguing with her, she would let him. 

“Well anyway,” the boy continued, “since you clearly don’t want me here, I’ll leave you alone.” He turned his back and had already started to walk away when Mila scrambled to her feet and pleaded to him with open arms.

“Yuri-”

“I’m not staying here.” 

“It’s a _jabberjay,_ ” she urged him, assuring him that there was no danger. 

“I don’t _care!_ ” 

A pause. A sigh. The tone and volume of Yuri’s voice changed drastically as he stared into Mila’s powder blue eyes. 

“Goodbye, Mila.” 

She felt her bottom lip quiver as the sound of his words echoed in her ears over and over. They were not going to see each other again; their alliance, severed over a woman. Days of wandering through fields and scrambling for food, struggling to hold onto her sanity had led her to this disaster. She had convinced herself that reuniting with Yuri would be the best thing to happen to her, that it would be like old times and they wouldn’t let each other out of their sight. However it seemed that the Games had already started to change him. Yuri had become more self-sufficient than she had ever seen him, and it was bittersweet. It was something he needed to do in order to secure victory for District Two, and she knew that he could do it. She just wished in that moment that they had more time together before reality made itself known, and death ridiculed them at every corner.

Mila felt the sting of tears pooling at her eyelids once again as she watched Yuri’s blurry figure disappear into darkness. She couched into a low squat and gingerly stroked the back of Sara’s hand, smattered with dried droplets of blood. Her skin was still warm, and if Mila closed her eyes, she could almost pretend that she wasn’t dead, but only sleeping. The image of Sara’s smiling face had been burned into her memory, bringing her joy in the hours past but sure to haunt her for the remainder of her life. Had she not been so eager to rest, she could have convinced Yuri to spare her. She would have told him about how wonderfully gifted she was, how gentle and caring she was, and how she made her feel better in such a doomed situation than she’d thought possible.

“Sara?”

She groaned. Were jabberjays rife in this arena? Though her encounters with them were few, Mila had already grown to despise the menacing birds. She knew that there was every chance that in the future, they could imitate a troubled Yuri to frighten her, or repeat some of Sara’s last words to haunt her at her most vulnerable. Her opinion on the creatures was clear; she would kill every last one of them on sight. 

Still crouched by Sara’s body, she heard rustling sounds coming from foliage close by, as well as the dull hum of the approaching Capitol hovercraft. Such noise became louder as the seconds passed, but it did not stop Mila from losing her focus. Despite her eyesight having not fully adjusted to the darkness, her gaze was fixed on the bushes in front of her, watching their shapes contort as the winds unleashed their force from above. Moonlight cast a shine on her trusty silver bow, and the redhead brushed the sweat off of her hands before securing her grip. Low on arrows, she would quickly arm herself once the jabberjay came into view.

But it didn’t.


	13. Avenger (Mila)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After one of her allies is killed and the other abandons her, Mila is left wondering about what course of action to take next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A prior warning, even though it's been mentioned previously: This is going to be one of those chapters that earns this fic the 'graphic depictions of violence' tag.
> 
> Also, Happy Easter to those who celebrate. Thanks again for your patience, kindness, and interest in my work - YuriPirozkhi

Mila had only come to know of jabberjays from textbooks, or from stories passed down in the combat schools of District Two. Bred in laboratories some generations prior, the birds were used as Capitol surveillance tools, used to spy on so-called enemies and relay information to those in power. Their ability to recall and mimic entire conversations only remained secret for so long, however, until those in the districts had caught on to understood its purpose. Over time, private conversations between district citizens became embedded in lies and codewords to throw off the Capitol spies, and the use of the birds diminished over time. All that remained of them in modern society were the sparse colonies of mockingjays in the wild, crossbreeds with the tendency to remember hums from nursery rhymes. 

Recalling anguished screams and recreating the voices of loved ones, the jabberjays had been brought back to reality. It was as if the Gamemakers weren’t having enough fun watching the tributes kill each other. They had to experience psychological trauma, as well. She pursed her drying lips and thought to herself, why continue with Michele Crispino’s calls of concern? There was no way to rouse false hope from Sara now. She was dead. As much as she hated to think about it and take glances at the blood on her fingers, there was no way that the ebony-haired beauty would ever awaken. Her cannon had sounded and her heart had stopped. 

The approaching Capitol hovercraft blew sharp gusts of wind into her face, and distorted the shape of the shrubbery before her. Although now she couldn’t tell from where the menacing bird was coming, Mila found solace in the fact that its voice had been slightly muffled. She could have a few seconds of uninterrupted thinking without the desperate calls of Sara’s brother infiltrating her mind. One hand remained steady at her bow for when the jabberjay came into view, for she wanted to kill it as swiftly as possible. More rather, she wanted to take a tight hold of it in her hands and rip its head from the base of its spine. If it weren’t from the bird that had set them off course yesterday, perhaps things would have turned out differently and Sara would still be alive. However, she imagined that a shot would have to suffice. She didn’t want to risk getting an infected bite from a Capitol-bred bird. It could have been mutated further with poison impregnated in its beak, or posed an even deadlier threat. 

With gale force winds blowing burgundy strands in her face, and the harsh buzz of hovercraft engines growing ever louder and closer to her ears, Mila resorted to squinting to keep an eye on the rustling bushes in front of her. She struggled to make out the shape of a jabberjay, approximately a foot in length and slightly larger in wingspan. Her gaze darted about the swaying stems in the hopes of finding pitch black feathers amongst dark green, but it proved rather difficult. Instead, she only caught sight of the momentary glimmer of golden spikes, and fingers sifting through the bushes.

As much as she hoped for it to be Yuri returning to her after a change of heart, she knew that it wasn’t the case. 

“Sara?”

Michele had come for his sister.

The sight of him in her person caused her to tremble immediately. She could feel the control disappear from her hands and the air escape from her lungs. Her jaw fell open slightly and her sky blue eyes widened in fear. She imagined what her situation would look like from an outsider’s perspective; a young woman appeared to be sleeping until one looked at her throat, and another with smeared bloody handprints over her eyes, the crimson stains mingled with tears. It didn’t paint the friendliest picture, nor the clearest that needn’t be explained.

“It’s not what it looks like,” Mila spat in self-defence, body frozen as she watched Michele appear fully from beyond the bushes. His light hair pushed back and matted with dirt, he looked like he’d already been through a great deal in the few days that had passed. Heavy bags hung underneath his eyes, eyes that looked identical to Sara’s, and hence Mila couldn’t look at them for long. Having not properly seen him since their evaluations at the training centre, she concluded that Michele looked much more ferocious in the arena than he had ever done, exhaustion be damned. She wondered what battles he’d had to endure to finally find his sister again.

It was as if he all but ignored her statement, for he seemed to rush past her without a second thought, instead making a beeline for his twin’s body lying helpless on the ground. It would only be a matter of time before he realised the truth, thought Mila. It would only take seconds for him to put two and two together, to understand that the most recent cannon to sound was to mark Sara’s death, and the hovercraft had come for her body, not that of any other tribute hidden in the landscape around them.

“I swear I didn’t-”

Again, the archer supposed that her words had fallen on deaf ears, for as she expected, Michele had quickly discovered the horrible truth about his sister. He had scrambled to the ground and lifted her body close to his chest, rocking her back and forth, murmuring apologies and consoling her departed spirit. She never thought it possible for him to speak with such kindness and sincerity, to project so much love and emotion through words so few and so simple. He kissed her cheeks and fixed her hair, lightly tugging apart locks that had been fused together with dried blood. His tears wet the shoulder of her jacket, and he looked up at the now docked hovercraft with immense disdain.

And then his gaze shifted to Mila.

“ _You,_ ” his voice was saturated with venom, a stark contrast to the way he spoke to Sara.

Mila wanted to run from him, to save herself from the verbal and physical carnage he was sure to unleash, but shock and fright prevented her from doing so. Instead, she shook her head fervently, her expression a display of the anguish she experienced, and tears began to pool at her eyelids once more. 

“I didn’t do it,” she told him, her speech shaky as she watched Michele gingerly lower his sister’s body. “I- I would never-”

“ _Liar!_ ” he roared in defiance before rising to his feet. 

Mila thought herself rather tall, but Michele was in a different league. It looked like he stood close to six feet, and had the physical strength to lift her and snap her bones clean in half. The brass knuckles he brandished, if genuine, looked like they could puncture through her flesh and be used to kill with ease. She hated herself for not instantly fighting back - she had sparred against bigger opponents back home - but she couldn’t help but feel that doing so would be wrong. After all, she thought to herself, this was Sara’s brother, and although she said that they disagreed from time to time, there was nobody else who Sara loved more in the entire world. She had even contemplated death if it meant that he could go home. 

And he would have done the same for her.

“I see your hands! I see _her blood_ on your hands!” he growled, lunging towards Mila and driving her backwards. “It’s on your _face!_ ” The grip on his brass knuckles was so tight that his flesh had started to pale. His gritted teeth were bared in a snarl so vicious it looked like he pondered ripping out her throat like an animal. There was a famous tribute from Two who had done such a thing many times. 

“Please,” she begged while stumbling. Mila could feel the terrain grow uneven beneath her feet; she was approaching the tree under which she and Sara slept, where she was arguing with Yuri only minutes before. “I could never hurt Sara!” she cried to him, “We were allies-”

“Bullshit!” spat Michele, visibly offended. His tanned face had started to flush a violent red, a thick vein pulsating from his forehead as his deep purple eyes remained fixed on her bloodstained cheeks. “Sara would know better than to form any allies. She knew that only _I_ could protect her!”

Mila stepped backward and felt her quiver of arrows back up against the rigid tree trunk. It collided with the rough surface before rolling to one side, causing her back muscles to spasm once she made contact. The back of her head hit the bark with a soft thud and her chin tilted upwards, exposing her neck. Her nerves made it near impossible for her to move, as did the young man’s imposing presence over her as he forced her into such a dangerous position. He had one hand positioned above her head, leaning on the trunk, and the other hand clenched by his side. If Michele wanted to poetically kill Mila in the same way his sister had perished, then would have been the perfect opportunity to do so. 

“I swear I never touched her,” Mila’s words came out in between sobs. _“Please.”_

“What,” he scoffed. “You only touched her with your knife?” At that moment he raised a fist, gold-plated spikes atop each of his knuckles, and the weapon shimmered ever so slightly under the early morning moonlight. “So if I punched you with this-” he took a hefty swing with his right hand and punctured Mila’s side. “Hm, I suppose I did touch you a little. Oh well.”

Mila felt a hard slap against her waist and cried out in pain. It didn’t register that she’d been speared by his brass knuckles until she saw the bloodied weapon at the corner of her eye. She hated how she wailed in anguish with each blow he dealt to her, and how her extreme discomfort must have given him a disgusting sense of satisfaction. It was like searing hot metal tore through her skin, through muscle before being ripped out of her at lightning speed. She felt a warm wetness across her stomach, one that seemed to grow with each time she’d been hit. It dawned on her eventually that he wasn’t going to kill her quickly; much like she’d decided with Leo not long before, Michele was going to make the pain last longer, because she had hurt him. Although not directly, she’d hurt him in a way more devastating than any physical blow, or so he thought. He truly believed that she had killed his sister.

How she desperately wished to have him believe it wasn’t true. Still, she couldn’t bear the thought of Yuri having to face his wrath in her place. Mila shrieked as the pain became unbearable and her torso became warm with blood while her extremities began to chill. She grunted in exhaustion as she tried to fight him off, but Michele was too healthy, too strong to be overpowered. She would reach up to push him away and his palm would pin her back against the trunk. She would try to lift her legs and kick him back, but the punctures in her stomach which grew by the second made such movement excruciatingly painful. She felt trapped. She felt helpless. It was all going to end here.

She even heard Michele grunting and murmuring remarks aimed at her, like how she would pay the ultimate price for what she’d done to his sister, and how ‘lying like a little bitch’ wouldn’t save her. Yet, she continued to argue for the truth, insisting between cries that she hadn’t laid a finger on Sara, and wouldn’t have dreamed of hurting her, even despite the circumstances. Michele thrust his spiked knuckles upwards beneath her ribs, twisting his hands so as to shred her body internally. By this point, blood had all but changed the colour of her t-shirt from grey to deep red, but her focus was still trying to fight off the older man who had her pinned. 

As she continued to bleed, Mila started feeling light-headed and nauseous, worried that there wasn’t much time left before she would lose consciousness. In the moments that passed, it was almost as if her life started to flash before her eyes. Birdsong in the district centre. The first time she held a bow. Racing to combat classes after school. Her first bullseye. Her mother’s lullaby songs. Her father’s hugs. Going to markets on weekends. The Reaping. Sara’s smile. The look on Yuri’s face when he told her goodbye.

She wasn’t ready to die.

_“Yuri!”_

It was a long shot, a call into darkness, but Mila was steadily running out of options. Her stomach throbbing and her balance faltering, she felt her body grow ever weaker by the second. Michele was relentlessly mincing her abdomen, bearing no mind to her begging for mercy and finding her attempts to escape pitiful at best. Even for her to struggle caused excruciating pain, something that she imagined gave Michele a sick sense of pleasure. 

“YURI!” her voice cracked as she screamed, her cry high-pitched and desperate.

She thought momentarily of how far away he could be, especially if he had ran, knowing that trouble was close behind. However, to do such mathematics in her head was near impossible given the painful stimuli she endured time and time again. She called for him again and again, though she knew that her cries likely fell on deaf ears, for Yuri had well and truly moved on. Their last exchange had been one that shattered a friendship that had grown over a decade. The trust between them had been mangled and twisted, if not completely severed. He’d pronounced her dead in his mind with his final goodbye. 

Still, it blocked out the torturous sounds of Michele Crispino laughing at her pain. So she cried and screamed until her voice grew hoarse and her throat grew dry, then eventually until it became enveloped by the older man’s hands.

“Will you ever _shut up?_ ” he groaned, irritated. 

She felt his thumbs press deeply into the front of her neck, his fingers and palms compressing the sides. Her instinctive reaction was to grasp at her throat, to reach his hands and pry them off of her. All she could manage was to feebly claw at his wrists. Her wide-eyed gaze remained fixated on the terrifying look on his face, the only splash of colour she could see amongst the swamp’s darkness. Her chest puffed outwards as she tried desperately to fill her lungs with air, but such was a struggle at best. It wasn’t long before dark spots began to dance in front of her eyes, and a pressure started to build inside her head. There was not much time. Thirty seconds, she suspected. A minute if she was lucky. 

_Were they showing this back home?_ She wondered. She hoped that her final moments of torture were not being broadcast into the centre of District Two, that her parents and friends were subject to watching her be cut open and speared like a piece of meat. She was sure that the Capitol would be enjoying such a display, but her loved ones deserved so much better. As her vision began to fade and her legs started to tremble, she could only hope that her district was proud of her for coming this far.

Then all of a sudden, the grip loosened around her throat. Michele jerked forward, a loud groan leaving his lips. Mila took what she felt was the biggest breath of her life. Never had air smelled or tasted so magnificent. 

“Hey, you fish-fucker piece of shit!” 

To hear his voice caught her by immense surprise. She had convinced herself that he hated her.

She watched Michele turn around to face Yuri with disdain when her eyebrows scaled her forehead. Protruding from the left side of his back was a sharp dagger, inches deep into his flesh. The shape of his hands curled into fists, the spikes across his knuckles gleaming as he turned. She could hear him hiss through his teeth, the amount of fury raging through his very being rising even further, if that was possible.

“I killed your sister,” Yuri told him almost with nonchalance, “with that knife.” He’d ended the life of another human being and it didn’t matter. After all, only one tribute was going to leave the arena alive. 

Mila couldn’t tell if she and Yuri had locked eyes from across the grass, but she felt that they did.

The slender blonde moved a hand to his waist, and Mila knew exactly what he had in mind.

“What are you gonna do about it?”

For a moment, time stood still, then the two of them charged to each other like bullets. It was hard to see exactly what was happening, but watching them clash so ferociously had put the most bitter of tastes in Mila’s mouth. As grateful as she was that Yuri had appeared from nowhere to free her from Michele’s deadly grasp, she hated to think as to the degree that he’d endangered himself. He’d thrown his knife. He had one more. What else did he have to defend himself? Would it be enough when his opponent had eight tiny yet deadly spears extending from his flesh? She winced at each time either of them took a swipe at the other. They were never supposed to fight each other head to head like this. Every career tribute at least, they would take down two against one so much as they could help it. 

She leaned her back against the rough tree trunk and slowly lowered herself to the ground, her legs curling up against her deeply wounded stomach, holding her fragile body together. Her arms gravitated to shielding her wounds, her damaged muscles spasming and bleeding in her hands. More than anything, she wanted to get up, to take Yuri and to run away from this entire situation; not just the conflict they’d got themselves into, but the Hunger Games themselves. She knew that escaping the arena was impossible, but she could barely even stand. Her damaged body faultlessly reminded her of her limitations with each passing second.

On one occasion, she tried to stand. She’d never heard Yuri cry out in genuine pain before. 

Everything was moving so fast that she couldn’t see what had happened, what the scumbag Michele Crispino had done to him. The only solace she had was that Yuri was still fighting, throwing his weight and swinging his arms. It looked like he was trying to jump on top of Michele’s back, presumably to retrieve the knife still deeply embedded in his flesh. Once the blade had been pulled from the wound, the older tribute was bound to bleed out much faster, especially if it was plugging a major blood vessel. Even if such wasn’t the case, it would make the flesh would bigger, cutting the muscle in a different direction and further restricting movement. At present, Michele sounded only mildly troubled by his injury; his dominant arm and hand were unhindered. 

Blending in with their surroundings, the fighters looked like a grey and khaki mesh in an ongoing tumble. Only did Mila occasionally see a spot of blond hair pop into her vision, of course, which disappeared again after mere seconds. Their frustrated groaning and yelling was constantly ringing in Mila’s ears, only adding to her throbbing headache. The tension caused her to sweat profusely from her forehead, her only refuge being the touch of her cold, blue-tinged fingertips. 

She watched on helplessly as Yuri and Michele tumbled and clawed at each other like wild animals, growling and hissing and yelling obscenities from left, right and centre. Her eyes closed upon seeing her district mate become winded by Michele’s heavy combat boot. Less than thirty seconds later, the tables had turned yet again, and Yuri had dealt a swift kick between his legs from the ground. The induced vulnerability from the older tribute gave Yuri the opportunity to do what Mila had in mind. She covered her mouth as she watched as well as she could, gasped as he took hold of the blade protruding from Michele’s back and pulled it out with a fierce confidence that she’d seen all too often. 

And then the blade went straight back in. Again, and again and again. 

Michele came crashing to the ground and Yuri quickly followed, teeth bared and chest heaving in fury. The younger boy’s arm was almost locked into the movement of plunging his weapon into Michele’s torso and ripping it out with just as much intensity. He was firmly sat atop the struggling twin, holding him down with one arm and using the other to repeatedly dig into his flesh with the knife. A minute passed and he slowed in his squirming, the energy in his painful cries decreasing, all while Yuri’s efforts remained steady. Mila counted the number of times the weapon went in. _Nine. Ten. Eleven._

Eventually, the struggle ceased completely.

_Fourteen. Fifteen._

She heard the sound of a booming cannon.

_Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty._

“Yuri,” Mila called out to him, her voice still hoarse and her throat sore from screaming. Unfortunately, such was a plea that went unnoticed. She could hear him viciously insult the deceased under his breath, all while continuing to pierce Michele’s flesh with the same weapon that killed his sister. He screamed and groaned and yelled with an aggression that matched his blows. A metallic smell filled the air as blood oozed from Michele’s upper body, seeping into the soil beneath them and staining the grass with red speckles.

“Yuri, he’s already dead.”

She lost count of how many stab wounds there were after twenty-seven. Why was he still going? What was he possibly gaining from kicking someone while they were down and out?

“Yuri, _stop!_ ”

Upon hearing her voice, he lowered the weapon, still breathing heavily, likely exhausted from the brawl. She winced as he growled angrily, snarling at the remains of Michele’s now unrecognizable face. There was a short pause in which everything was silent, and then Yuri exhaled deeply. His gaze met Mila’s, and as much as she wanted to smile, she couldn’t. Not yet. Not while she was still processing what had become of her friend and how he’d seemingly lost control of his emotions. 

“You’re okay…” his voice was soft and shaky, and his eyes wide in shock, like he’d struck gold and all of his birthdays had come at once.

Of course, she was far from okay. She was the exact opposite of ‘okay’, but she didn’t have the heart to tell her district mate. Instead, she simply beckoned with her arms that he come closer. The opportunity to see and talk with him again was a blessing, and she knew now that this would be her last chance. Every passing second was, for her, a fight to stay alive, to retain consciousness, and to pass on any advice and possessions that she saw fit. Not only was Yuri watching her with his own eyes, but she had no doubt that there were cameras surrounding them as well. They could have been hidden between shrubs or embedded into the sturdiest rocks, projecting their footage to the Capitol when situations got juicy, or conflicts escalated.

It seemed that Yuri had misunderstood her gesture, or had high hopes for their circumstances, for rather than interpret her extended arms as an invitation to be embraced, he took hold of her wrists instead. They were both covered in District Four blood now. 

“Please, no-” she begged as she felt him pulling at her arms, encouraging her to stand.

“C’mon, Mila,” teased the boy. “Haven’t you been resting enough?”

“No, I can’t-”

“Besides, you don’t think anyone else heard you carrying on? People are gonna find us. We’re sitting ducks here. Let’s go to the river and get cleaned up.”

“I can’t!”

The attempt to pull her up was agonising, and Mila could feel her stomach muscles and organs spasm with every inch of movement. She aimed more than anything to keep her feet anchored to the ground, and to keep her knees bent so that her body could relax and she could spend more time fully conscious before succumbing to shock. In that moment, she was thankful that Yuri was fatigued from the fight, and he wasn’t using all of his strength to bring her upright. It meant that it was easier for her to remain still. She resorted to digging the heels of her boots into the ground and all but pulling Yuri to the ground with her. Instead, he let go of her and used his hands to cushion his fall against the tree branch, to which Mila could only look up at him and verbalise her first request.

“Sit with me,” she asked him, “just for a little.”

‘A little’ was all that she had.

Yuri looked unimpressed, but conceded nonetheless. 

“Fine.”

He sat next to her, and if she closed her eyes, it almost felt like old times, like at home before the Games. It was like if she thought hard enough, she could picture the vivacious atmosphere of the inner district market, and smell the fresh oranges that would sell out just after dawn. She could imagine the cool breeze that came from the city’s shopping complex, and pretend that she had Yuri had just finished a session at combat school. She could pretend for a moment that they were sat on the front porch of her house, rather than in a strange and unwelcoming swampland, at which she would meet her death, and he would likely see his, as well. 

“You were right,” Mila murmured softly, still facing forward. She could feel Yuri’s eyes on her. “I should have trusted you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he offered, leaning onto the heels of his hands. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

A pause.

“I really didn’t think you’d come back,” she thought out loud.

“Of course I was gonna come back,” Yuri replied, perplexed. “We’re allies, remember? We kill for each other. You’d do the same for me.”

It sounded strange in her head, but once again, she knew that her district mate was right. It wasn’t something that regular friends did, but in the context of the Hunger Games, killing for each other was exactly what it meant to be allies. They would spare each other from a gruesome and imminent death so long as they were able, and it meant one less target on each of their backs for at least a while. As a bonus, the Capitol folk tended to have a soft spot for alliances, and enjoyed watching them crash and burn even moreso. Any alliance that made a good sob story tended to be a magnet for sponsor gifts.

“Absolutely,” she agreed. “In a heartbeat.”

For a while, they didn’t talk. Words danced atop Mila’s tongue, but nothing felt right. She didn’t think she’d ever have to tell someone that she was dying. Part of her had always thought that it would be a quick process, and in a way, she wished that had have been the case. Hiding her pain was becoming more and more difficult by the second; her legs remained bent and rigid, her arms held her abdomen tightly while her teeth gritted and she fought off the will to scream. Tears had already been pooling at her her eyes for some time. She wondered what she had done to deserve such severe and enduring pain. 

She opened her mouth and produced no sound but a whimper. Yuri reacted just as she expected. Her eyes followed his hand as it disappeared into his coat pocket and he pulled out a small metallic sheet, a handful of white pills sealed within it.

“I have some aspirin from a sponsor, y’know, if you need it for, uh …” his voice trailed to a murmur as he looked away, “girly … _shark_ … pain stuff, if it’s that time.”

The gesture was so selfless and kind that it made her heart swell. However, Mila knew that she had to decline. Such would only be a waste if she took away Yuri’s resources now, when her time was so limited and any attempts at rescue would be futile. She gingerly extended a hand, and curled his fingers back into his palm, refusing his offer. It would be much more useful for him to hold onto these things for later. 

“It’s alright,” she insisted. “Keep them for yourself.” She remembered earlier the unfamiliar scream that made her ears ring and her entire body react in fear. “I know he hurt you, too.”

Mila could see his eyes widen as he became defensive. 

“It’s nothing.”

“Can I see?”

“I said it’s nothing!”

“ _Yuri_ ,” she pleaded

“ _Fine._ ”

She watched him turn his back and was instantly horrified. Four straight lines, deep gashes, had torn through the fabric of his raincoat and t-shirt, leaving Yuri cut and clawed like an animal. The cuts began just above his right shoulder blade and traced across his back to the left side of his waist. It meant that turning his body and bending down would be painful for a while. However, Mila could tell that he was healthy, that the ends of each slice were beginning to heal and the wounds were already starting to close. It was the shock that made him cry out in pain before. The wound would be an inconvenience at worst, she had decided. If his sponsors were kind enough to gift him painkillers, they would surely be so merciful as to send a tub of antiseptic cream. 

“Don’t you have a shirt like that at home?” teased Mila, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

“Mmhmm,” he responded with a laugh. “I told you it wasn’t that bad. Now can you just take some food or water or something so you can get better and we can get moving-”

“Yuri, I’m not gonna get better.”

It slipped out inadvertently, in a manner and tone that she instantly regretted using. She wanted to let him down gently, to tell him as calmly as she could muster, but instead, she had snapped. Mila felt her eyes sting with tears and she watched Yuri’s face change dramatically, his casual expression contorting into one of determination and fury. She was certain that he was in denial. She couldn’t bear to look him in the face as he took a closer look at her stomach, the blood pooling from her twisted abdomen and the organs that protruded from it.

“Fucking hell, Mila…” she heard him curse under his breath before he looked her squarely in the face. “Lift up your t-shirt. I need your jacket.”

The archer furrowed her brow, confused. She especially didn’t want to give her jacket as she could feel her arms and hands growing colder by the second.

“What?”

“To get contaminated fibres out of your wound; you could end up septic!” She could tell that he was angry, but there was nothing that could be done. “I can’t use my jacket as a cover ‘cause it’s ripped! Use your head!”

It hurt to hear him speaking with such desperation, for surely he knew the reality of the situation. Of course, he could apply a dressing to her wound. He could keep it warm and moist by using his water rations instead of being sensible and using it for himself. He could keep her intestines steady with a bandage and attempt to close her puncture wounds. He could even apply antiseptic lotion to each of her wounds to reduce the risk of infection, but then what? With every second that passed, Mila knew that succumbing to shock and to death was imminent, but she was grateful that she could have the company of a friend in her final moments. That was why she wanted to keep Yuri with her; to ease her fears, and to send him off into the arena knowing that she had done everything she possibly could for him.

Her teeth gritted and she groaned in discomfort as she felt him pull at her t-shirt. Small puddles of dried blood had soaked through the fabric and then dried, sticking the garment to her skin. She knew that Yuri was following the first aid principles they were taught as children, but she wished that he would stop. When her condition was this dire, there was no point in making the effort. It was far too stressful emotionally and physically, and she knew that her district mate was tired.

She barked at him once more when he tried to pull her jacket from her shoulders, and it seemed that in that moment, that was when Yuri finally clicked. In a matter of seconds, she watched the boy’s fierce expression melt away completely. His top lip started to quiver while his emerald eyes pooled with tears for the first time Mila had seen in years. She tried more than anything not to yell out in pain when he threw his arms around her shoulders, burrowing his face into the crook of her neck.

“I can’t do this without you,” Yuri confessed in between sobs.

Mila instinctively cradled his head with one hand and softly held his back with the other, hoping not to aggravate his cuts. 

“Yes, you can. I know you can.”

That was when, as comforting as it was to hold him, she pushed Yuri away from him and started giving him instructions. She told him to empty out all of her pockets from her jacket and cargo pants, to savour the food inside of them, but not be afraid to use it as a lure. She made him recall everything that Lilia had told them on the train to the Capitol, to summarise the most vital principles of his grandfather’s teachings. Then, she asked him to reach behind her back, to unfasten her quiver from her body, and to act on a request she’d asked of him back at the Training Centre, a time which seemed like an eternity ago now.

“Take it,” she urged referring to her gleaming silver bow. “Don’t be slack with your elbow.”

“Mila-”

“Just promise me you’ll take it!” she snapped, exhausted.

“Alright, alright.” Yuri sniffed his running nose, and used the back of his hand to wipe his eyes. 

“Now, listen to me.” She reached out of him and took hold of his wrist so as to secure his attention. “You just killed two career tributes _by yourself._ Don’t you _dare_ tell me you can’t do this without me. You can and you will. I truly believe that, with my whole heart, okay?” Her grip loosened on his wrist and she reached for his hand, squeezing his fingers tightly as a way to cope with her agonising pain. It further emphasized as to just how cold she was; in comparison, Yuri felt like a furnace.

She had known her district mate since they were small children, and she knew that he liked to be tough, to be seen as the one with the thickest skin, the greatest strength in both his combat style and in his spirit. Mila knew that he hated to be seen crying, and she wasn’t surprised that the more he continued, the more he tried to hide it. She didn’t mind it too much, because every time she saw a tear on his cheeks be reflected in the early morning light, it caused a fresh sob to leave her throat, as well.

“I know you know you can do this,” she whispered, and Yuri nodded. “Just be careful.”

“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” he confessed just as softly, his head hanging lowly and stray blonde locks falling into his face.

“I’m sorry, too.” Mila sighed. Her instinct told her that her remaining moments were fleeting, and it was becoming more and more of an effort to stay awake, to stay alive. She jerked her head to one side, gesturing to the level ground next to her.

“Can you scoot over here so I can lean on you?”

He obeyed her without so much as a teasing remark, and she let her body relax ever so slightly before putting her head on Yuri’s shoulder. He was a little bony, but comfortable enough so that she could go to sleep if she wanted. She hoped he had had at least one meal of substance since the Games started, but somehow, she doubted it.

“Thank you,” she offered, looking up at the boy to gauge his facial expression. “Thank you for everything.”

It was nice that she didn’t have to die alone, she thought. Still, she felt like a burden on Yuri for requesting his company. This was likely going to be an experience that would stick with him for a long time, assuming he got to go back home. She felt like so long as he knew that he was supported and appreciated, he would be okay. His presence was the saving grace in a situation when all she felt was excruciating pain. The throbbing headache and twisting sensation in her gut. The profuse sweating and chills in her fingers and toes. Mila felt that he knew that, and that was why he stayed.

She began to lose track of time, unsure as to whether minutes were seconds or seconds were minutes. Perhaps it had been hours, but she doubted it. All she felt was the cold, Yuri’s arm, and the intense need for sleep. Every now and again, her eyes softly closed and her chin slid down her friend’s shoulder, but he would always nudge her to check that she was alive.

“Mila, look at the sunrise.”

Her eyes opened to a myriad of colours, to rays of morning sunlight dancing on the leaves of distant trees. The colour of the sky was a mix of pastel hues, like the kind she would see at a candy store back home. Powder blues blended faded to a soft pink, and glowing orange and yellow light peeked above the horizon. She felt the slightest hint of warmth on her face, the sun’s welcoming glow washing over her features. 

Yuri’s shoulders raised and lowered as he exhaled deeply, and she felt his eyes on her for one last time. Eventually he, too, was awestruck by the beauty of the nature around them. How a group of people so psychologically damaged as the Gamemakers could create something so spectacular was beyond her, but she was thankful for the view, nonetheless. Birds blew across the sky and called to each other, their wings spread wide and their silhouettes a start black against the sun. Did they know where they were? Did the birds wish to be free as well? To go home, to a better place?

The colours of the sky slowly faded to white, and she felt a nudging against her side getting softer and softer. The sounds of birdsong eventually became replaced by white noise, and in her final seconds, all Mila could think about was the sweet comfort was sleep. The time for her to feel afraid had passed. Sara would meet her where she was going.

The Games were over. There was no more fighting, and she was free.


End file.
